


Love's Many Faces

by poselikeateam



Series: Higher Vampire Jaskier AUs [17]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Alternate Universe - Twins, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Bisexual Disaster Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Bisexual Disaster Jaskier | Dandelion, Bisexual Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Bisexual Jaskier | Dandelion, Creature Jaskier | Dandelion, Double Dating, Everyone Is Alive, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Friends to Lovers, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Getting Together, Good Friend Zoltan, Happy Ending, Idiots in Love, Immortal Jaskier | Dandelion, Injury Recovery, Jaskier | Dandelion Being a Little Shit, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jealous Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jealous Jaskier | Dandelion, Jealousy, M/M, Major Character Injury, Minor Character Death, Mutual Pining, Non-Human Jaskier | Dandelion, Novigrad (The Witcher), Oblivious Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Oblivious Jaskier | Dandelion, POV Alternating, POV Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, POV Jaskier | Dandelion, Past Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Protective Siblings, Sibling Bonding, Sibling Love, Siblings, Slow Burn, The Witcher 3 Spoilers, Vampire Family, Vampire Jaskier | Dandelion, Vampire Priscilla, Witchers Have Feelings (The Witcher), Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg Ships It, Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg is So Done
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-02
Updated: 2020-08-23
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:53:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 26,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25673107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poselikeateam/pseuds/poselikeateam
Summary: When Geralt and Yen find another djinn to break the bond the first one forced them into, Geralt realises the feelings he's had for Jaskier all this time. Only, when he goes to talk to him, he finds out Jaskier has moved on. He tries to be happy for his friend.Jaskier's sister is in town, and Geralt seems to hate her. She insists that the witcher is jealous of her, and while people often mistake them for lovers (gross), he can't imagine why Geralt would be upset by it. He's never shown any interest, after all, so why start now? Priscilla suggests that they test her theory, and he's never been very good at saying no to her.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion & Priscilla, Zoltan Chivay & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Zoltan Chivay & Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Higher Vampire Jaskier AUs [17]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1754371
Comments: 299
Kudos: 874





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Squeakerblue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Squeakerblue/gifts).



> 1\. This is not my fault. This was @Squeakerblue's idea, and I'm blessed to be writing it.  
> 2\. I'm essentially taking the Wild Hunt out of TW3, and just letting Geralt & co. live their lives. They deserve it. That said, it's canon divergence, but there will be spoilers if you haven't played.  
> 3\. While this is mostly based on events in TW3, I'm sort of taking the books, show, and games, and making a soup out of them. I'm going to keep using "Jaskier" instead of "Dandelion" because I don't agree with the whole "we can't call him Buttercup, it's too gay!" thing.  
> 4\. This is defo going to be a series. I won't say too much yet, except that there will be a vampire bard for every witcher and a witcher for every vampire bard. Well, except Vesemir, but only a slight divergence there. You'll see.  
> 5\. I'm breaking my personal rule of not uploading something until it's finished, because I'm nearly finished with this and know how it will end and fully believe that I'll see it through. That said, it IS technically a WIP, but don't let that dissuade you, because it won't be for long.

Geralt is having a lot of mixed feelings. He does not like having mixed feelings, because frankly, he can barely deal with the straightforward, cut-and-dry ones. This goes doubly, at least, for feelings involving his interpersonal relationships. The first time Ciri had ever called him “Dad”, he’d dropped the crate of Lambert’s bombs he’d been relocating, and promptly fucked off into the woods for about three days. 

Look, obviously, witchers have feelings, unless the mutagens fuck them up to a dramatic and irreparable extent, but those witchers tend to not survive long anyway. Geralt is, if you ask Lambert, “a crusty old bastard”, but the important part there is the word “old”. So, yes, he has feelings. The problem is that out in the world, on the Path, feelings complicate things. It’s best to pretend he doesn’t have feelings so that people will leave him the fuck alone. If a stranger wants to think he’s a soulless monster, whatever. He knows better, and those close to him know better.

It’s still difficult to wrap his head around the idea that there are people who aren’t witchers in that category. Zoltan, Jaskier, Yennefer, Triss, Crach — at this point, honestly, he’s practically got his own little family scattered all across the Continent and the Skellige Isles. Are some of them depressingly mortal? Yes, absolutely. That doesn’t make him love them any less.

He cares for his loved ones like he fights monsters — fiercely, with everything he has, like one wrong step will take everything from him. He wants the best for those he cares about, even if it’s something that makes him uncomfortable.

For example, Ciri has grown into a wonderful young woman. When he’d accidentally claimed her, the last thing he’d wanted was a child, to subject someone to the life he’d been forced into. He’d done everything in his power to keep destiny at bay, and that… hadn’t worked out, to put it mildly. In the end, he’d had to take her to Kaer Morhen, and if he’s being honest he’d loved her as soon as he’d met her. The little girl who’d been through so much and never, ever let it stop her had grown into a young woman just as fierce and many more times capable. When she’d first told him she _wanted_ to be a _witcher_ … 

Well, once again, he’d fucked off into the woods for a few days.

It was either that or lash out, give in to the impulse to let his mouth run miles ahead of his brain and say all the most fucked up things he could in a misguided effort to ease some of his own raw, blind panic. He took the time to himself, and when he came back, he told her that he’d support any decision she makes, _as long as_ she is completely aware of what she’s getting herself into. Geralt had tried to convince himself that there was no way a literal princess would be willing and able to tough it out, even though the moment they’d met he knew she’d had what it takes.

In the end, he realised that what he — what any witcher — hated about their lot in life was that they didn’t have a choice in the matter. Keeping Ciri from the Path against her will would be no better than strapping her to Sad Albert, morally speaking. While it wasn’t easy for him to accept, he’d reconciled his personal baggage and fears with his desire to see her happy, and now she is probably a better witcher than Geralt.

Another example: Yennefer. Tying their fates together in a panicked, last-ditch attempt to save her life seemed like the right thing to do at the time. Years later, helping her find another djinn to break that bond… had hurt, at first. He’ll admit that their on-again-off-again thing was as comforting as it was toxic, because he’d always known that he’d have someone waiting for him. That wasn’t what was best for either of them, though, and he’d had to man up and get the fuck over it. 

This time, like Ciri, Yennefer deserved the choice. And, damn it, so did he. They’d broken their connection and kissed and… It just wasn’t the same. It was like kissing a friend — not unpleasant, but certainly not his favourite activity. At first it was difficult, and then he’d realised that he’d done the right thing, and it felt good. 

The point is that what’s important, what has always been important, is that the people he cares about are happy and safe. It’s why he tried to drive Jaskier away, way back when, before (going with the theme he’s apparently got going) realising that it is Jaskier’s decision if he wants to be a fucking idiot and follow Geralt across the Continent. If it’s what Jaskier wants, what pleases him, then Geralt won’t stop him, whether it’s a terrible idea or not.

The thing is… Jaskier is the problem right now.

Okay. Pause. It’s not that Jaskier is the problem. It’s that Geralt’s feelings are fucking with him in regards to Jaskier, and he wants to rip his own fucking hair out.

Yeah, that’s a lot more accurate. Essentially, Jaskier is his closest non-witcher friend, and certainly his longest-lasting. That stupid fucking djinn magic had made it so all he could see was Yennefer, and when that fog had dissipated from his mind, he’d seen what had been right in front of him this whole time. 

Now, Geralt is not the best at social situations, in large part because he doesn’t generally feel the need to bother with them. The persistent rumours that he doesn’t know how to read a room are not baseless, but not actually correct. He walks a fine line as a witcher, and if he pisses someone off just enough in just the wrong way, it can make things very difficult for him. He might not know the latest court fashions or what cutlery to use with what dish, but he knows people, because he has been around for quite a long time; and, beyond that, witcher senses tend to tell him a lot about the emotional states of others. He can tell if someone is lying or nervous or angry based on their heart rate, can tell if they’re sad or lusty or afraid based on their scent. There are about a million and one tells that he can latch onto to figure out more or less what others are feeling; it’s just that he doesn’t generally bother.

He’d have to be blind, or a fool, not to notice the way Jaskier had always looked at him, the way he’d acted, talked to him, treated him. Jaskier had feelings for Geralt for an indeterminate but definitely lengthy amount of time. And Geralt would have to be blind, or a fool, not to see it.

Or, under the magic of a powerful elemental spirit.

A lot of things hit him, not necessarily _all at once_ , but one after the other, like the way the cards fall when he shuffles a Gwent deck between his hands. He did not love Yennefer. Jaskier had feelings for him. He had feelings for Jaskier. The djinn’s magic had blinded him from all of that.

After, he had made his way to Novigrad, where he’d heard that Jaskier had inherited some kind of inn or brothel. The _Rosemary and Thyme_ , it was called. Apparently, he’d been staying there with Zoltan while he got together the funds, workers, and plans to renovate the place. It’s good seeing Zoltan again, but he wants to find Jaskier. He wants to… fuck, he doesn’t know. Apologise? Confess? See if he hasn’t missed his chance?

He finds out, very quickly, that he has.

Zoltan mentions a girl that Jaskier has been almost disgustingly enamoured with lately. Priscilla, stage name Calonetta. A bard, like him, gorgeous in every way, his perfect match.

Geralt feels sick.

He swallows it down.

It only makes sense that Jaskier would move on, thinking his feelings were unrequited for so long. Geralt has no right to come barreling in and complicating things with his own feelings now that Jaskier is happy with someone else. It would be worse than selfish. He can’t. He won’t. He has to be happy for his friend.

Geralt meets Priscilla that night. He hates her immediately. He grits his teeth and tries not to; and, failing that, tries to pretend. 

Gods, Jaskier’s animosity towards Yennefer makes a lot of sense, suddenly. 

He and Zoltan go to her performance at the Kingfisher. The innkeeper, Olivier, is an acquaintance of his; Geralt had won a rare Gwent card from him once, and the other man had taken it surprisingly well, and they’ve been something akin to friendly ever since. He never kicks Geralt out when someone tries to start a fuss about having a witcher around, so Geralt holds him in pretty high esteem, as far as humans go. 

It’s difficult, but Geralt sits, endures Zoltan’s friendly prodding. It’s not the dwarf’s fault that Geralt has the emotional maturity of a lump of clay, and lashing out at him would not only be a complete dick move, it would also make him ask questions that, honestly, Geralt isn’t ready to answer. Maybe he never will be. He’s thankful when the lights dim and the performance starts, but that relief is short-lived.

She’s singing about him and Yennefer. Way to twist the fucking metaphorical knife in his metaphorical gut. The entire song is a painful reminder of how badly he’d fucked things up for both Yennefer and himself, but the worst part has got to be when her mournful soprano croons, “ _I know not if fate would have us live as one, or if by love's blind chance we've been bound. The wish I whispered, when it all began — did it forge a love you might never have found?_ ”


	2. Chapter 2

Jaskier loves his sister, really and truly, but he absolutely hates that fucking song.

He’s known Priscilla for… Gods, centuries. Truly, he can’t remember a time _before_. He has fleeting recollections of a soft voice singing him to sleep, cornflower blue eyes just like his own crinkling at the corners, softly calling, _Julian, darling, be careful!_

It’s all he remembers of being human.

And he’s fine with that, really! It was so long ago, and he’s sure that it would only hurt to recall that long-ago time now. He’d had a mother who loved him, he thinks. It’s enough to make him smile when he feels lonely. Otherwise, it doesn’t bear remembering. No good can come of trying to traverse _that_ particular rabbit hole.

He and Priscilla have the same sire. Therefore, they are siblings. Higher vampires, like them, have two lives: the before and the after, the human and the now. His human childhood was probably nice, and if it wasn’t, who’s going to tell him otherwise? 

He must have been in his early twenties when he’d been turned. A fucking _baby_. Whenever his students try to pretend they’re so grown up, it makes his heart ache, just a little. They’ll never truly know what _being old_ means. They’re doomed to experience (at best) a fraction of what he’s seen, what he will see. He doesn't know if it's better or worse to think that they aren't even aware of how short their time is. 

If there was a time that he’d wished he was human, he can’t remember it. He admires them, in a way; they can do so much with so little time. However, he can’t say he particularly wants to be one. Traveling the Continent, remaking himself every lifetime or so, always learning, exploring, seeing, _experiencing_ — that is the greatest pleasure, the best way to live, what he was meant to do. As a human, he would probably be dead within a week, with the kind of trouble that seems to find him. Honestly, he understands why Geralt had wanted to get rid of him; after all, the witcher thinks him human, and humans are so terribly, dreadfully fragile. To feel responsible for one? He can barely handle the level of responsibility he feels for his students, and he's never had to travel the Continent with any of _them_.

Meeting Geralt had been a novelty at first. Geralt was a particularly difficult puzzle, a challenge, a code to crack. Getting to know the man inside the gruff, prickly exterior was like prying open an oyster to find the rare pearl inside. 

At least, it was like that at first. He’d meant it to be that way. Geralt was interesting, something he hadn’t seen before — and new things are such a rare treat, for someone like him. He had assumed that he’d get the songs and stories he wanted, crack open this enigmatic man’s shell to study the meat inside of it, and be on his way. 

Really, he should have known better. Becoming attached to mortals is a terrible idea, and despite their longevity, witchers _are_ still mortal. They are more difficult to kill than a human, but the way they throw themselves headfirst into danger on a day-to-day basis tends to balance the scales, so to speak. Unfortunately, his heart had never listened to reason. He should have known that people are only so easy to leave behind because he gets bored of them, and Geralt is anything but boring. The man contains multitudes; just when Jaskier thinks he's learnt everything there is to know about his witcher, another facet presents itself. Geralt is like a diamond that never stops turning, showing more and more beauty with each angle and trick of the light. It hadn’t taken long to fall deeply, irrevocably, and irreconcilably in love, and it shouldn't have surprised him when he did. Once he’d seen the man hidden behind the walls the White Wolf had painstakingly constructed, that was it. He was done for.

Any illusions he might have had that it would go away have long since shattered — or, as he once said of Yennefer’s virtue, _that ship has sailed, wrecked, and sunk to the bottom of the ocean._

Of course he didn't like Yennefer at first. How could he? She's everything he can't be, everything Geralt so clearly wants. She's all poise and curves and power; and, of course, Jaskier is powerful in his own right, but there's no way to show that without admitting that he's been lying for fucking decades now. A witcher can love a sorceress, but a monster hunter cannot love a monster. Yennefer gives Geralt what he deserves: someone to love, and to be loved by. Eventually, though it pained him deeply, Jaskier had come to be cordial with her — had grown to like her, even. Hell, they're more or less friends, as long as he ignores the obvious, Geralt-shaped elephant in the room. He knows that it isn’t her fault that she has what he lacks, whatever it is he can’t offer. It still makes a particularly violent envy burn and roil deep in his gut, but over time he’s gotten better at swallowing it down and getting on with things. Yennefer is… well, a fucking nutcase, but what mage isn’t? She’s a good sort, and he’s sure he’d thoroughly enjoy her company if not for his entirely pathetic, ridiculous, unrequited feelings for a certain handsome witcher.

“My dearest, darlingest brother,” Priscilla all but purrs, slinging an arm around his shoulders, “I could practically hear you grinding your teeth from the stage! Thank goodness I’m such a good musician, or you could have thrown me off with your incessant sulking.”

“Priscilla, sweetling, have I told you how beautiful your voice can be when you aren’t being an absolute—”

“Please do finish that statement, sweet Jaskier,” she purrs into his ear, just this side of too loud, oddly performative even for her. “The rumours are true; you really _do_ know just how to make a girl blush.”

He raises one eyebrow, opens his mouth to respond, and immediately notices the distinct scent of woodsmoke, metal, and horse. Well, at least he won't be the only one who feels attacked by Priscilla's fucking song.


	3. Chapter 3

Only literal decades of practise with meditation and controlling his own feelings keep Geralt from doing something stupid and childish, like punching a wall or stomping out of the place without any explanation. A careful, calming breath in through his nose and out through his mouth is the most he can manage. 

He really needs to get this under control. “Jaskier,” he says, perhaps a little more gruff than he’d intended. 

“Priscilla,” Zoltan crows — and thank fuck for the boisterous dwarf, because Geralt _cannot_ deal with attempting polite conversation after _that_. “Lovely as always, lass.”

“Thank you, Zoltan,” she simpers. Fucking hells, Geralt hates her. 

Breathe. Calm.

“Nice song,” he grunts. He doesn’t actually believe that, but it’s the first thing out of his mouth, so it’s what he’s got to roll with. Truth be told, it's probably the worst song he's ever heard, and he knew Jaskier before he was famous. Sure, she has a beautiful voice and the melody was gorgeous and perfectly matched the sombre tone of the lyrics, which were very beautifully written... okay, it's a good song, but fuck that anyway. He's the subject matter, so he's entitled to his opinion, and his opinion is that it's fucking trash.

“Oh, thank you,” the blonde says to him with what his envy identifies as a malicious smirk. “I’m so sorry, you are…?”

“Geralt of Rivia.” At least introducing himself when irritated is something he’s more than used to. He's not actually sure he can remember a time when he'd ever just introduced himself like a normal person. Of course, he is _not_ a normal person, or even a normal _witcher_ , so it doesn't actually matter. The point is, when people ask his name, it's generally with an air of derision at best, and he's more than used to spitting it right back with a sneer of his own. Unfortunately, this time he is not _allowed_ to sneer and spit. It's not illegal or anything, but he's really trying to keep an open mind and not immediately give in to his petty, unfounded dislike of his best friend's girlfriend. For fuck's sake, it's not like Geralt _owns_ him. He may not act like it, but Jaskier is a grown man. He can do what he wants... or who.

If his foul mood comes across in his tone, Priscilla doesn't seem to make any note of it. Her eyes widen in a way that seems entirely faked, mouth forming an almost perfect ‘o’ of shock. “Oh my, you’re _the_ White Wolf? My dearest Jaskier’s told me _so many_ things—”

“All lies, probably,” he answers, crossing his arms and doing his level best not to scowl. 

“Really, darling, you think so little of me?” Jaskier says with a pout. It strikes Geralt in that moment how very similar the two musicians are. The way they speak, dress, and act; their mannerisms match in an almost eerie way. Even their posture, the way they hold themselves is eerily similar, despite the obvious fact that Priscilla is more... top-heavy. The way they rib each other, their back-and-forth makes them seem more like siblings than lovers. If he didn't know any better he'd think that were the case, but there's no ignoring the obvious flirting, and the fact that Jaskier has never mentioned any siblings in all the time they've known each other.

It takes everything in him not to look away, not to _run_ away. It would be one thing if he’d had time to process his emotions before being thrust into this situation, but of course he isn’t that lucky. He has to navigate his own mind _and_ meeting his best friend cum secret love interest’s _lover_ at the same fucking time.

Nice.

Zoltan and Priscilla are talking animatedly, and Jaskier is partly joining in, but Geralt can tell his heart’s not in it. He keeps giving Geralt these _looks_ , like he wants to talk about something and is weighing the likelihood of Geralt just bolting instead. Thankfully, he seems to accurately determine that Geralt absolutely is not in the right place for what promises to be a difficult and painfully personal conversation, and doesn’t bring it up at all.

It’s ridiculous. He knows he’s being ridiculous. He has absolutely no right to be jealous. Unfortunately, no matter how much he tells himself that, he can’t seem to force himself to act accordingly. 

“That song,” he says in what he hopes is an ambivalent way. “It was about me and Yen, wasn’t it?”

Priscilla, damn her, doesn’t seem even the slightest bit cowed. In fact, she _grins_ at him, all teeth, and it takes everything in him not to return it with a snarl. Just because he’d been trained at the School of the Wolf, doesn’t mean he actually is one. And, for fuck's sake, there's no reason for him to consider her a threat, so why are alarm bells going off in his head when she bares her teeth? She's not a predator; there's no way this slip of a woman would be a threat to a witcher. It's _ridiculous_ , and he needs to calm the hell down.

“Our dearest Jaskier has told me _so_ many stories,” she purrs almost coquettishly, “and your romance makes for such _lovely_ ballads. Wouldn’t you say, my sweet?” This last part is directed at Jaskier, who is giving her a smile that — for some reason — looks like it’s made of poison and knives.

“It certainly makes for an interesting song,” he answers venomously. It's all bite, no tease, like for some reason he can't stand the song either. Geralt isn’t sure if he’s reading into it and projecting his own feelings onto the interaction, or if he’s missing something entirely. He’s going to assume it’s the former. 

Somehow, Zoltan talks him into following them back to Jaskier’s little brothel. Geralt tries to argue, but when the dwarf points out that it’s free lodging… Well. He doesn’t have a reasonable argument, even if everything in him is screaming to bolt before he makes an absolute fool of himself, or worse.

They drink late into the night, but his heart’s not in it. On the bright side, it means he won't get shitfaced and make a fool of himself. Zoltan and Jaskier are the only non-witchers who can almost match him drink-for-drink; in Zoltan's case, it makes sense, being a dwarf. In Jaskier's case, well, Geralt's not sure, but there's a lot about his bard that's strange; so much so, that he'd stopped really paying it any mind at least a decade ago. They keep drinking and chatting, and he tries not to ruin the atmosphere, lest Jaskier get on his case about 'incessant brooding'. When Jaskier and Priscilla retire to their room — fuck, they share a room, and that should _not_ be as upsetting as it is — he grunts something to Zoltan and spreads his bedroll on the ground floor. The place is sparsely furnished at best, and even if there _is_ a free bed or cot upstairs… he’d rather not hear what the two lovers are up to.


	4. Chapter 4

“What the fuck was that?” Jaskier hisses. The Vampire tongue can pitch into frequencies that even witchers can’t hear, he’s found, and he takes full advantage of that in this moment. It’s probably something to do with their relation to bats, he thinks. He almost wants to ask Geralt, but he can think of far too many reasons why that would be a terrible idea. 

She gives him a predatory grin that, in his experience, only means trouble. “Oh, he was _pissed_ ,” she tells him gleefully, thankfully sticking to the same frequency as him.

“Yes, I noticed,” he responds drily. “So, I’ll ask again, what the fuck?”

Priscilla tilts her head, her grin turning sharp. “He’s jealous.”

Jaskier breathes out sharply through his nose, trying to control his own irritation. “Great, so he wants to fuck my sister now. And you’re rubbing it in because…?”

She shoves him, awful creature that she is. “Are you that dense?” she taunts. “I thought you were supposed to be a master of romance! He wants _you_ , you absolute pillock!”

He gapes at her. “That’s not funny,” he answers darkly. 

“Do you see me laughing?” she retorts. “Trust me, while you were sulking through my _fabulous_ set, I was watching _your_ witcher. Oh, if looks could kill, we wouldn’t be having this conversation now!”

“Prissy, he probably just thought you were making fun of him.”

She sighs, as though he’s just caused her great inconvenience. “Let’s test my theory then, shall we? Whoever wins can gloat about being right, and the loser has to take it, for however long the winner wishes.”

That… he isn’t sure if that’s a bet he wants to take. If he’s wrong, she will be _insufferable_. Still, if he’s right, she’ll leave him the fuck alone, and… Honestly, there’s a part of him that thinks dealing with her gloating for the rest of eternity will be worth the hassle, if Geralt really does love him back. 

“I’m not agreeing yet,” he clarifies, arms crossed, “but what exactly is your plan?”

Her plan, as it turns out, is almost childishly simple. He can hardly believe they’re twins, because sometimes it feels like they’re centuries apart. Still, he has to remind himself that this could be a win/win scenario for him. 

All they have to do is pretend to be together romantically. It sounds like something out of a bad comedy, one Madame Irina might put on for children. Gods help him if Priscilla does end up trying to write this mess into a play. 

They don’t have to do anything untowards — and thank the Gods for that, because while he has been described as having loose sexual morals, he’s firmly against sleeping with his own _sister_. They just have to flirt a bit. Well, more than they generally do, and obviously less jokingly, but the fact remains that it shouldn’t be too difficult. Geralt is already convinced that they’re a couple (at which he takes a generous moment to internally gag) and he and Prissy _do_ love each other (in a _very_ different way). 

Unable to make this easy on either of them, he crosses his arms and says, “I think you might be spending a bit too much time with your mummers, lately.”

She scoffs, predictably. “Says the most dramatic, performative man on the Continent?”

“Darling,” he says with a cheeky grin, “flattery will get you _everywhere_.”

It makes Priscilla roll her eyes — which, once again, is somehow both predictable and gratifying. Loving Priscilla is easy; after all, they’ve known each other for their entire lives — well, _this_ life, anyway. Neither quite remembers being human, and they barely remember their first decade or two as vampires, but they _do_ know that they are twins. They’d been turned at the same time, by the same sire, which means that it’s likely they’d known each other in their last life as well. 

Throughout their lives, she has always been his most steadfast companion. Sometimes they don’t see one another for a decade here and there, both following their own meandering paths, but they can always pick right back up where they left off when they meet again. Jaskier, of course, was the first in the family to become a bard. His lovely sisters and his pissant cousin might never admit it, but he was the first to pick up a lute, the first to fall in love with music and poetry, the first to realise that the life of a traveling bard is perfect for their kind.

Sure, he may not have been the first vampire _ever_ to become a bard, but he was the first in the family. The other three can suck it.

Of course, that isn’t the point. The point is that loving Priscilla is easy, as easy as getting distracted and going on wild tangents before coming back to what he’s actually been trying to convey all along. So, it shouldn’t be that much of a stretch to act like he’s _in love_ with her. Besides, they are far too alike, and it’s not like no one has ever accused him of narcissism. Their dynamic works, and since they don’t _look_ like twins, by human standards, people often think they are together.

Yeah, this might just work.

“Well, my dearest, my love,” he says in Common, just a little too loud in the hopes that Geralt will hear, “shall we go to bed?” The last three words are said as suggestively as he can manage without sounding entirely disingenuous, and Priscilla stifles a laugh with her hand. 

“Oh my,” she purrs, putting all of her stage acting experience to good use, “I don’t know if I’m tired enough, just yet.”

Gods, he doesn’t know whether he wants to laugh or vomit. Little of both, he decides. “I’m sure we’ll find a way to tire us both out,” he tells her, dropping his voice like he’s trying to be quiet and suggestive now.

Either from laughter or mortification, this is going to kill him, he’s sure of it.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Zoltan is the only marginally reasonable person in this whole mess.

Geralt did not go straight to bed.

It had been his intention. If he fell asleep quickly enough, he wouldn’t have to hear… Well, it doesn’t matter, because they really hadn’t taken that long to start speaking in innuendos, and not for the first time in Jaskier’s presence, Geralt is cursing his witcher senses. 

“Not gonna be able to sleep,” he grunts when Zoltan gives him a questioning look. He’s already halfway through the door. “Going for a walk, a drink, a game of Gwent — whatever I find first.”

Now, it just so happens that those are some of the dwarf’s favourite things, and he can tell that Geralt is in a foul mood, so he invites himself along. That’s the kind of friend he is — dependable and flexible, like a good set of witcher armour. 

If he’s being honest, Geralt isn’t entirely sure whether Zoltan has caught on to his feelings for the bard or not. Zoltan loves to tease his friends, but never in a mean way. He always means well, and if he knows how Geralt feels, then he knows that the witcher is hurting. If he knows Zoltan, he knows that the dwarf will probably get tired of waiting for him to bring it up and offer him advice at some point, without any kind of judgment. It’s something he appreciates, even if sometimes he wants to be annoyed by it.

They end up going to the Kingfisher, drinking and playing Gwent together for a few hours, before Zoltan pins Geralt with a _look_. Geralt knows this look, and he does not like what it signifies. Predictably, with a sigh, Zoltan puts down his pint and cards and says, “Geralt, can we talk about what’s really goin’ on?”

The witcher sighs too, puts down his own cards. “Can’t say I didn’t expect it.”

Nodding, Zoltan says, “You don’t seem to like Priscilla much. Any particular reason?”

“I feel like you already know the answer to that,” Geralt answers.

“Aye, I may,” the dwarf concedes, “but you know what they say about assumin’.”

Geralt laughs, just a little, and shakes his head. Leave it to Zoltan to keep it light, even with something like this. “Probably be easier if you tell me what you think it is first,” he says. 

Thankfully, his friend seems to understand what he’s really saying. A confession like that, it’s too much. He just can’t. But if Zoltan says it for him, he can at least tell him whether he’s right or wrong. 

“Think you might have feelings for a certain bard,” he says, “and I don’t mean the one with the tits.”

“It doesn’t matter,” he answers. Not denying it is as good as a yes, and he gets the suspicion that Zoltan really doesn’t need to hear him say it to know he’s right. 

“It does if it’s makin’ you miserable,” retorts the dwarf. 

“Zoltan,” Geralt sarcastically chides. “When have you known me to be anything else?”

They take a moment to laugh at his expense — or, at least, at the way people see him. Zoltan picks up his drink and takes a long swig, and Geralt knows better than to assume that this conversation is actually over. 

“Aye, you can be a right miserable prick,” Zoltan agrees. “But you know what I mean. This ain’t the same thing.”

Geralt sighs again and drinks some of his own pint. Zoltan, more than used to the witcher by now, simply waits for him to put together what he wants to say. Eventually, Geralt starts to tell him about everything that happened. He tells him how he and Yennefer undid the wish that bound them together, and not feeling the same after. He talks about how the wish had made him blind to anything but Yennefer, had warped his perception to put her at the center, and how once it had been lifted he’d been blindsided by his feelings for Jaskier. 

He’d thought about it, of course. Geralt mentions the thought that he’d put into it before making any sort of decision, and talks about how he had wanted to talk to Jaskier about it, to see if… Only, he’d found out that Jaskier is with this woman now, and Geralt should be happy for him, he’s trying; Jaskier deserves this, and even if he had felt the same, it doesn’t matter now. Bringing it up wouldn’t do anything but cause trouble.

“So, what, you’re just gonna act like it’s fine? How about when he asks you to be best man at his wedding?” Zoltan asks. Geralt finds his jaw clenches at the thought, and he sighs again.

“Nothing else to do,” he says. 

And for once, Zoltan doesn’t offer any sage advice. Perhaps it’s because he knows that Geralt can already hear it in his head. Perhaps he’s going to try later. Perhaps, this time, he’s just decided to leave it alone. Whatever the case, Zoltan just nods, drinks his pint, and picks up his cards again. And so the next two hours pass, before Zoltan decides it’s time for bed, and Geralt thinks it’s probably safe to join him.

There’s no worry that Zoltan is going to tell Jaskier anything they’d talked about. Geralt trusts him, and it takes a lot to earn his trust. He knows Zoltan, knows that he doesn’t need to worry. He might try to convince Geralt to say something, but he’d never cross that boundary and do it for him. 

He’s relieved that, when they get back to the Rosemary and Thyme, Jaskier and that— and Priscilla are asleep. At least, they aren’t making any noise. It takes a while, but eventually, Geralt falls into a blessedly dreamless sleep, doing his best not to dread the next few days.


	6. Chapter 6

The next few days are a whirlwind of activity. He spends more time with Geralt than he does with Priscilla, because he has _work_ to do, and Geralt is the best person to help him with it. 

See, he’d recently inherited the Rosemary and Thyme from an old acquaintance — well, fan, really — and hadn’t yet had the time or money to renovate the place. He has _plans_ for this place. Jaskier’s always wanted a cabaret, and the opportunity has just fallen right into his lap. All he needs is, well, funding. The rest he can handle, hopefully.

The first thing he has to do is hire workers. He says that he’ll pay them for the renovations once they start working, and they agree. No, he doesn’t quite have the money yet, but they don’t need to know that; and besides, he knows he’s going to be able to get it that night.

The second order of business, then, is to convince an old flame of his to grant him a loan. The thing is, he’s not on the greatest of terms with her, after the way things ended. Of course, he has a plan, and needs Geralt’s help for it.

Geralt makes a great fake robber. He can be very intimidating, because of his size. He even deigns to read the lines Jaskier had written for him. Is it a realistic or believable attempted robbery? Fuck no. Is it straight out of the trashy adventure novels his former paramour loves? Yes. Women of her status are rarely faced with any semblance of reality, and so a real robbery would not be believable to _her_ because it wouldn’t match her very specific view of the world. 

Thank goodness Geralt goes through with it, beginning to end. He’d gotten the swords from those mummers, pretended to be a robber, even let Jaskier hit him with a prop sword before dramatically fleeing and leaving the bard to comfort the young lady after her harrowing experience.

With that done, their funding is secured, so the next morning he hires an old professional friend of his, the best choreographer in Novigrad. Unfortunately, her bullheaded husband has seen the old establishment’s flyers, and since it had previously been a brothel, he thinks Jaskier is trying to whore out his wife.

The man refuses to listen to him, and he’s this close to using his hypnotic vampire powers when Geralt shows up, blessedly and unexpectedly. The witcher helps him find the spare key, and then uses his own intimidating presence to force the man to allow Jaskier to speak. Between the two of them, their ‘good guard, bad guard’ routine has the man eating out of the palm of Jaskier’s hand. Thank the Gods for Geralt. 

He finds out that, while he was trying to convince this lout to give him his damned choreographer, Geralt had been at the Rosemary and Thyme with Priscilla. He had told Geralt that the renovations were for her, to hopefully make him jealous; instead, apparently it has made Geralt determined to be as helpful as possible. He’d also told Priscilla that she should decide what the inside of the place looks like, because it’s for her. 

Thank fuck she’d insisted that Geralt pick for her. Jaskier loves his sister, but he does not trust her to choose the design for his new establishment, and Geralt knows his tastes very well. While Geralt is out finding the halfling who’d promised him new flyers, he oversees the renovations. About a day later, the witcher comes back after having apparently won a horse race so that his halfling friend could pay off the debt he’d accumulated through, well, gambling on horse races. 

Some people never learn.

At any rate, he has everything he needs, and it’s all thanks to Geralt. When the witcher finally comes back, the place has been rebranded as the _Chameleon_ , and everything is _perfect_.

He insists they celebrate a successful first night. Of course, he wants to drape himself over Geralt’s lap and kiss him within an inch of his life. After all, without him, none of this would be possible — at least, not this quickly. Unfortunately, Geralt is still with Yennefer, and he is still pretending to be with Priscilla, and he is already starting to regret this whole, stupid thing. 

So, he flirts with Priscilla, and he puts his arm around her shoulders, and he keeps bumping against her. He smiles at her and kisses her cheek and laughs into her ear. He takes the way they usually act and makes it a bit more… amorous. 

To be fair, Geralt does look like he hates it. Jaskier really, really wants to believe that Priscilla is right, that the witcher is jealous. Maybe he’s a fool — no, strike that, he’s definitely a fool for listening to her against his better judgment. It’s just… he can’t help it. He wants to hope, even though he knows it’s going to fuck him up later. 

“Thank you so much, Geralt,” he says. He’s being absolutely sincere. “It’s more than I ever could have done on my own. This wouldn’t be possible without you.”

“I hope she likes it,” is Geralt’s answer. Jaskier wants to rip his fucking hair out. 

“Me too,” he says, looking in Priscilla’s direction. She and Zoltan are talking about something, though he isn’t going to try to figure out what. It’s better for his health, really. 

“She makes you happy?” Geralt asks, apropos of nothing. 

He allows himself a small, fond smile. “Yeah,” he answers. “Drives me half-mad sometimes, but I suppose I like that too, in a way.” It’s what siblings are for, he doesn’t add.

“Good,” Geralt says. When Jaskier turns to look at him, the witcher is giving him a strange look. It’s sort of fond and sad all at once. It’s not a look he’s used to, on Geralt’s face, and he has no fucking clue what to do with it.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this chapter drunk, so the realism should be there

Geralt has been in Novigrad for nearly a week now. Usually, he would never stay anywhere that long, not including Kaer Morhen in the winter. However, there are an incredible amount of jobs, and he doesn’t have to pay for a bed, and… well, he does kind of enjoy the time he’s spending with Jaskier, even if it is driving him mad.

He doesn’t dislike Priscilla. She seems like a good person, and she makes Jaskier happy. What he dislikes is the way he feels about it all. He should be happy for his friend, not jealous of the woman he loves. 

Everything is okay — or at least, he’s more or less got a handle on it — until Yennefer comes to town.

Somehow, where Yennefer and Jaskier are both involved, he knows nothing is going to go well for him. It’s just how things have been, since the first time the three of them met. He loves Yennefer, really — just not quite in the way he’d thought he had. She’s a good friend. She’s a good mother to Ciri. She’s just not… what he wants, in a romantic partner. They aren’t good together, but they still care about one another. It’s sort of like when a couple enters an arranged marriage and is able to part once their parents die. There’s no animosity, but there’s no romance, either.

She shows up at the Chameleon — because that’s what Jaskier has named the cabaret he’d built for the love of his life, for some reason — and Geralt immediately sees about a thousand and one different ways that everything can go tits-up. 

“Yen,” he says, immediately making his way over to her. He and Jaskier had been in mid-conversation (which is to say Jaskier had been ranting to him about something that had happened in Oxenfurt recently), but he can’t risk anyone else talking to her before he does. 

“Yes, Geralt?” she asks, one eyebrow raised imperiously. 

“Can we talk? Somewhere else?”

She gives him an appraising look that, even after all these years, still vaguely makes him want to squirm. Finally, she nods, and he leads her out into the street. When they’re far away enough from the Chameleon, she turns to him, leans against a low wall, and crosses her arms. 

“So,” she says, “willing to tell me what’s going on?”

“Why are you in Novigrad?” he asks, deliberately ignoring her question and crossing his own arms.

Yennefer shrugs one shoulder, a languid sort of movement. He has no idea how everything she does seems to be so damn graceful, but it’s something he’s always admired. “I was in the area to visit a dear friend, heard you were in the area. Thought I’d stop by.” 

If they hadn’t known one another for so long, Geralt would miss what she’s really saying. Yennefer has a similar affliction to his own — they both find sincerity damn near impossible. It had been relatively easy to learn to read between the lines with her, if only because he’s used to being the same way. What she’s really saying is that she’s checking up on him, making sure he’s doing alright after everything. He appreciates it.

And, because he can’t just say so, he says, “Been better, but nothing you can do about it.” What he means, of course, is that his troubles are not related to what happened between them, and that he’s doing fine on that front.

“Oh? Do tell,” she says. It sounds like she’s fishing for gossip, for something to make fun of him for, and he knows that at least some small part of her actually is. Of course, she’s also asking about what’s bothering him. 

He shrugs. “Not that easy to talk about.” Translation: it involves feelings.

She hums in understanding, and he finds himself wishing, not for the first time, that they’d worked out. She just _gets_ him. It was easy with her, except for all the times she made him want to rip his hair out. 

“Jaskier has a new girlfriend,” he adds, looking at her pointedly, trying to convey that this is not tangential in the slightest.

“Oh dear,” she answers. “I suppose you’re babysitting him again?” That… might actually be one of the few times she means what she says.

He shakes his head. “Nah, he’s really serious about her. Never seen him like this before.”

“Interesting.”

He’s so glad she understands him.

They talk some more, though they head to Crippled Kate’s to drink and chat. For some reason, it’s a favourite haunt of Yen’s — whether that’s because of the relative ease of hiding out in a seedy brothel, or because everyone is too preoccupied with the girls to listen in, or the girls themselves, he can’t quite say, and it’s not his business anyway. The drinks are fine, the girls aren’t bad to look at, and there’s a lot of dark corners for them to sit in, so it works for him whatever the reason. 

The more they drink, the more plainly they speak. It’s always been this way. When she’s flushed from wine and laughing quietly, Geralt can see why he’d loved her — like the imprint behind his eyelids after looking at the sun. 

“She’s not bad,” he says, well on his way to sloshed thanks to her generosity. “Reminds me of him, too much maybe. I just… don’t like her. Not _her_ , she’s _nice_. She’s just… I don’t know.”

“You don’t like what she represents,” Yen surmises, leaning back in her chair. 

“Yeah. Guess I’m jealous. He’s fucking— he’s totally _gone_ on her, Yen,” he grumbles. “Should be happy for him. Trying to be. This is shit.”

She pats him on the shoulder in a way that’s as comforting as it is patronising. “Always thought he only had eyes for you.”

He glares at her, at all three of her. “Not anymore. ‘M not… _Priscilla_. All blonde and… tits-y.”

Yen laughs again, an indecent snort into her wine glass that has his lips twitching up into a smile despite his best efforts to continue scowling. “Your tits are nice,” she tells him, copping a feel as if to prove her point.

They both laugh, leaning on one another. He hasn’t been this drunk since the winter. “I know he wanted me before,” he finally says when the laughter dies and the melancholy sets in again. “Just… missed my chance. Wish I hadn’t.”

Yen puts her hands on Geralt’s cheeks, making him look her in the eye. “You know, witcher,” she says, “I don’t think he’s over you. Don’t believe it one bit.”

“If you saw how he’s been with that trobairitz,” he grumbles. She shakes her head, presses one finger to his lips.

“Shh. Shhhh. Hush, you. Look. I’m rarely wrong. I’ll prove it,” she whispers (very loudly, somehow). 

“Can’t prove— how would you prove that?” he asks.

“Listen,” she answers, “You and I, we just… pretend we’re still together. Smitten. We really rub it in. He’s always hated me, you know.”

“You’re friends now.”

Yen laughs, lets go of his face. “Yes, well. He still doesn’t like us together.”

“We were never good together.”

“I know that,” she grumbles, rolling her eyes. “I know. But listen, wouldn’t you? He can’t stand me the same way you can’t stand his… his Priscilla.”

“I’m not going to try to ruin this good thing he has,” Geralt argues. It’s out of the question.

“No, listen,” she says again. “I’m not saying that. If he really loves you, he’ll get bothered if we’re… sappy. If we really rub it in. And, hush up and listen! If he gets bothered, that means he loves you and if he loves you that means he _shouldn’t be with her_. And if he doesn’t get bothered then, well, sorry! Either way it’s _foolproof_.”

He knows, for some reason that he can’t quite identify just now, that this is flawed logic. He knows it’s a bad idea. Still, he’s drunk and he’s hurting, and he’s always had a terribly difficult time saying no to Yen, even if he knows she’s wrong. 

“So… okay. Yeah, sure,” he agrees. “Think it’s a bad idea, but… fuck, can’t be worse than doing nothing.”

The grin she pins him with is predatory, despite her inebriation. “You’re in good hands,” she promises. Somehow, he doesn’t quite believe it.


	8. Chapter 8

He should be fucking used to this by now. 

Jaskier had been telling Geralt a story, and… well, Yennefer walked in, of course. The second she comes in, Geralt’s right up her arse, not even a word to Jaskier! It’s _infuriating_. 

Long ago, he’d come to terms with the fact that he didn’t hate Yennefer, but the way Geralt acted around her. It’s like, the second she walks in a room, everything else ceases to exist. Jaskier can’t fucking stand it. He never could. Apparently, it’s not something that time can easily fix. 

“I fucking told you,” he seethes when Priscilla comes to check on him.

“What, the sorceress?” she asks. No shit, the sorceress! How many decades has Jaskier been bitching about that very sorceress? And now, it happens before Priscilla’s very eyes, and that’s all she says?

“Yes, obviously the fucking sorceress,” he hisses. 

Priscilla just rolls her eyes at him. “Come,” she says, “let’s talk about this in private, shall we?”

It’s probably for the best. He may be irritated, but he isn’t a complete fool. Zoltan’s been trying to figure out the source of the tension between him and Geralt, and while the dwarf means well, there are just some things Jaskier doesn’t quite want to tell him. 

“Every bloody time,” he seethes, just about the second they’re alone. “As soon as Yennefer comes along, it’s like nothing else exists! It’s like _I_ don’t exist! I’ve known him for— _fuck_ , Prissy, what does she have that I don’t?”

She tilts her head one way, then the other, and says, “Well, her tits are bigger.”

He puts his head in his hands and groans. “Why do I even bother? I mean, with you _or_ him, you’re both the absolute _worst_ , though in different ways.”

“You love us,” she answers, as if it’s the simplest thing in the world. Would that it were so simple, he thinks wryly. 

“I wish I didn’t, sometimes.” 

Jaskier is a loving creature. Uncle Regis loves to say that every vampire has a niche, a specific power that they hone over their existence, and that it’s why vampires are so difficult to identify and classify. Love is, perhaps, his defining feature. Be it physical or emotional, he falls in love easily. Usually, he has little trouble falling _out_ of love. Then Geralt had to come along.

He has loved Geralt far longer than he has ever loved anyone. His witcher is the only person he’s ever been unable to stop loving, to detach himself from. It hurts, but even the pain it causes him is something exquisite.

Jaskier’s voice can hypnotise others, in a way. He can make people become smitten with him. He has never tried to use this power on Geralt, and he never will. The way he feels for the witcher is too real, too raw, for him to try to fuck with it. He can entrance a crowd, make them love him and his songs. Even that, he has done his best to avoid. If he is going to gain renown, it should be on the merits of his music, not his vampiric powers. 

Sometimes, it feels as though his very being revolves around love. Whether it’s making love, or being loved, or being in love, he’s never gone without. It’s just… well, it’s never been this out of control, before. 

“I don’t know what to do,” he croaks.

Perhaps Priscilla notices his abject despair. Perhaps she realises that jokes and jabs and jibes aren’t going to help him. He doesn’t profess to know what goes on in her head on any given day. What he knows is that she comforts him now. She puts her arms around him, and lets him cry into her shoulder.

“It’ll be alright,” she tells him. “It might not feel that way, but Julian, dearest, trust me. I still think that I’m right, and this will work.”

He doesn’t know why he lets himself believe her. It hadn’t done him any good so far. He doesn’t know how this can possibly work out. 

Still. Perhaps it’s because he’s a romantic at heart. Perhaps he’s just a fool. Whatever the reason, he sighs, and acquiesces. 

“I don’t know if I believe you,” he says, “but I don’t know if I can quite make myself disbelieve you, either.”

“Look,” she tells him, “we antagonise each other often. Sometimes I want to wring your bloody neck. But you’re my brother, and I love you, and I want you to be happy. If I didn’t think there was a chance, I wouldn’t lead you on. But I really, truly think that the two of you have a future together. Just be patient. I swear, it will all work out.”

The rest of the night is spent bitching back and forth. At some point they sneak out to seduce some human, and then another, getting themselves well and truly shitfaced without the risk of hurting anyone. 

“You’re a fucking nuisance,” he gripes, “but you’re _my_ nuisance. Best. Fucking, you’re the best sister. Don’t tell Essi. She’ll get jealous. She’s sweet. But you’re my favourite.”

When Priscilla laughs, it’s into his collarbone, and she’s definitely as drunk as he is. “You are. Fuck, you’re the best, my favourite, so we’re even. I love Essi too but you’re my, my twin. She can’t compete.”

“Best not to tell her,” Jaskier answers, nodding sagely.

“Yes, I agree,” Priscilla says. 

They fall asleep in one another’s arms, like they used to long ago, when they were fledglings. For that night, at least, things are alright. They’ll be okay.


	9. Chapter 9

The next day, he and Yen make their way back to the Chameleon together. They’d ended up just renting a room in Crippled Kate’s for the night, because neither had wanted to try wobbling back to Jaskier’s inn, and Geralt refused to allow Yen to try portaling. _Friends don’t let friends drink and portal,_ he’d slurred firmly. She rolled her eyes, did something that made his medallion hum, and got them a room without Kate asking if his _freaky mutant bits_ still work, like she usually does. 

He has to admit, it’s nice to not have to deal with that for once.

At any rate, they spend the night together in a brothel, and come back to Jaskier’s dishevelled and reeking of the place. Well, he’s dishevelled. Yen’s just… slightly less immaculate than usual. Either way, it’s pretty obvious where they spent the night, and if he knows Jaskier (which, he is pretty damn sure he does, at least as much as anyone can), the bard is going to assume they’d been having vigorous and creative sex all night. 

Unfortunately, he remembers Yen’s terrible idea, and he remembers agreeing to it. For some reason, he isn’t going to try to back out before they at least try it. Maybe he’s just used to being unable to say no to her, trained to just do what she wants until it falls apart around them, a symptom of years of not being able to have a say in things that involve him. 

Whether it’s a good idea or not (it’s not), he’s locked in. He and his ex-wife are going to pretend they’re still together to make his best friend jealous, because Yen thinks he’s, what, not serious about his current girlfriend? While, yes, Jaskier has a _terrible_ track record, the poster child of “love ‘em and leave ‘em”, Geralt has the feeling that this is different. It’s just something about the way he acts around her, like he plans on sticking around, like he already knows her intimately. It almost feels like how he acts with the other Wolves, only obviously, he doesn’t sleep with his brothers.

Still, the point remains that Jaskier and Priscilla are a fucking dream team. They’re cute together, their dynamic is so easy and their interactions so fluid that it all seems nearly rehearsed. They’re both bards, and can do their poetry and their duets and their arpeggios. Geralt doesn’t even know what an arpeggio _is_ , but he could learn. 

He needs to stop being like this. It’s pathetic. He’s not supposed to be so desperate for a human’s attention. It’s like he’s making up for lost time, all the years he would have been pining without the djinn’s magic condensing into the past weeks in a desperate game of catch-up. 

“Geralt, you’ve brought another friend?” Priscilla coos. He can already feel a migraine forming just behind his left eye.

“Where’s Jaskier?” he asks instead of answering. He’s pretty sure, based on that damned song of hers, that she knows exactly who the woman standing next to him is. 

“Is he always this rude?” she asks Yen, now ignoring Geralt entirely. 

The sorceress, or should he say _traitor_ , nods sagely. “Unfortunately, I’ve yet to break him of his boorish social habits. Yennefer of Vengerberg. And you are…?”

Priscilla grins, and there’s something about it that sets Geralt on edge. It looks dangerous in a way he can’t quite identify. “Oh, you’re _the_ Yennefer? I’m honoured to make your acquaintance. You can call me Priscilla.”

“Or she could call you a pain in my arse,” Jaskier grumbles from the stairs. It’s quiet enough that the other two shouldn’t be able to hear it, but just loud enough that Geralt can. He’s able to stifle a surprised laugh, if only because he’s so used to pretending he doesn’t know what laughter is.

Geralt makes his way toward Jaskier, now that he’s noticed the bard is there. He isn’t sure if the other man is aware that Geralt could hear him, but he figures it’s best not to be the one to bring it up. If they’re having problems with their relationship… well, it’s not Geralt’s business, and he knows he’ll only say the wrong thing out of selfishness. As he gets closer, he notices that Jaskier’s scent is tinged with— no, not tinged, _doused_ in irritation. Of course, he doesn’t need witcher senses to tell that his friend is in a foul mood. It’s painted all over his face. What’s confusing, though, is the way it seems to deepen as Geralt approaches. 

“They seem to be getting along,” Geralt says. He doesn’t really know what else to say. He already hates this scheme of Yen’s, and can’t help but think that if he were a better man, he’d just come clean and tell Jaskier everything right then and there. But no, he has to remind himself why that isn’t fair to the bard. 

“Of course,” Jaskier spits. “Everyone fucking _loves_ Yennefer.”

Geralt raises an eyebrow. “If that were the case, I wouldn’t get nearly as much shit during the winter.”

His brothers… do not really like Yennefer. It’s not that they _hate_ her or anything. If they’re all sitting and drinking together, telling stories, they can have a good time. It’s just… well, it’s a few things. The first and most obvious is that she can be a bit domineering. It’s like wherever she goes, she comes in, makes herself right at home, changes everything to her liking, and orders people around. That kind of shit doesn’t really fly at Kaer Morhen, and the reactions range from snide comments to outright bitching; of course, since she would never deign to listen to any of it, the burden of fielding those complaints falls on Geralt. 

The other problem is the way she treats him specifically. His magic-induced love for her hadn’t necessarily _blinded_ him to it, but it _had_ made him ignore it when he normally wouldn’t, and absolutely shouldn’t. She would always ask the world of him, and like a dog fetching a stick for its master he’d do whatever she demanded. And, while it’s not like she never did anything for him, the relationship was just never equitable in that regard. She expected certain things, and he expected nothing; she is a woman used to a certain amount of luxury, and he is a witcher who has only just barely learned he’s allowed to want things. It’s no one’s _fault_ , it’s just not a compatible dynamic.

Of course, that’s not how his brothers see it. Eskel once said, “You'd brave a fire for her… Whereas she plays you like a cheap fiddle. Way it's always been.” It had hurt, partly because it was true, and partly because he refused to admit it. Now, it’s a dull ache. They aren’t together anymore, which is good, but Eskel had been right, and Geralt just wouldn’t listen. 

To be fair, Eskel had been right, but he only saw how things _were_ without trying to understand _why_ it was like that. He and Yen are fundamentally different people. It turns out that for their relationship to function they need to have more in common than a rough childhood, being unwanted and given away by their parents, and being painfully turned into something not quite human. They both have different baggage, and both processed their trauma in very different ways. There’s also the fact that sorceresses are more or less taught that they are better than everyone else, while witchers are taught that they are no more than tools. 

So, Geralt had never asked for enough, even though he knows that Yennefer cares about him, because he hadn’t wanted to bother her; and Yennefer had always asked for too much, assuming that he eventually gave in to most of her whims not because he felt he had no choice, but because it was something he was comfortable with doing. She viewed his protestations as a game, and he never bothered to correct her.

“Geralt?” Jaskier’s voice cuts through his thoughts, and he glances at the bard with a small amount of embarrassment. “You alright? I think you got lost there, for a second.”

“Yeah,” Geralt answers, “Just thinking.”

Jaskier is different from Yennefer. He always tries to make sure that Geralt is alright, that he’s comfortable, that he’s cared for; and, if he thinks Geralt is uncomfortable with the way he does it, he tailors his methods to suit the witcher’s personality. Jaskier taking care of him had been like boiling a frog. He’d done it so gradually that, at first, Geralt didn’t notice.

It was little things, to start with. He would order too much food on purpose and claim it was an accident, or he would pick plants that he swore were random, pretty things, but were actually ingredients Geralt sorely needed. He found out which scented oils bothered Geralt and stopped using them, found out which ones the witcher preferred and used them more. He accidentally-on-purpose spilled Geralt’s drinks if he noticed the barkeep spitting in them, ordered baths while Geralt was out on a hunt and then claimed he’d already bathed, or was too tired to.

Then, when Geralt was used to these mistakes — when he allowed them, when he stopped questioning it, Jaskier upped his game. Jaskier started patching Geralt’s wounds, washing his hair, mending his clothing, setting up the campsite. He’d take Geralt to markets and ask his opinion, and even if the witcher refused to give one Jaskier could tell what he really thought, so Geralt simply stopped trying to hide the fact that he had feelings and preferences and just… allowed it. He started to braid the witcher’s hair before bed so it wouldn’t tangle, and when they got to that point, Jaskier took it a step further.

He’d buy Geralt sweets, get in fights with people who spoke ill of him, pay for both of their rooms. More than once, Geralt had seen him menace an innkeeper into replacing the food or drink they’d spat in. He’s pretty sure Jaskier’s pulled knives on people as well, though he’s never tried to confirm that theory. 

But the part that was perhaps the most difficult to accept, to understand, was the compliments. Geralt is muscular, he knows that without his scars he’d have what’s considered a nice body, but Jaskier has always had this habit of complimenting the parts of him that everyone else found ugly or freakish. His eyes and hair, the things that mark him the most obviously as what he is, what he’s gone through, are somehow beautiful to Jaskier. And the way he reacts to his scars… it’s surreal. He’s asked for the stories behind them, but never gawked, stared, asked _does it hurt?_. Sometimes he’d just be sitting, tuning his lute, and say something like, _Where did you get that scar on your left shoulder? It sort of looks like a tree._ Casual, like it’s normal, like it’s no big deal. 

Gods, how could Geralt _not_ love him?


	10. Chapter 10

Jaskier is not having a good time, lately. The whole _making Geralt jealous_ plan had almost felt like it was working, and he’d stupidly, foolishly allowed himself to _hope_ , just a little bit. And then, like always, it came crashing down when Yennefer entered the equation.

It’s frustrating for so many reasons. Priscilla had taken Yennefer’s appearance as some kind of fucking challenge, apparently, because now she’s all over him, flirting and simpering and winking and just… he appreciates that she’s trying to do something nice for him, but how the fuck can he win Geralt’s heart if he can’t spend any time with the man?

Not that it would be easy without Priscilla, of course. After all, there’s still Yennefer to contend with. Before the witch had come by, Geralt had been so melancholy. Now, well, he still _is_ , but she seems to make it _better_ , whereas Jaskier, somehow, only seems to make it worse. 

Look, it’s not that Jaskier _wants_ Geralt to be in a bad mood. In fact, he has pretty consistently wanted the exact opposite for all the time they’ve known each other. He’s glad that Yennefer can pull him out of whatever weird rut he’s gotten himself in. It’s just… he’s jealous, okay? Jaskier is hideously, painfully, disgustingly jealous that once again, Geralt is going to _Yennefer_ for something that Jaskier had been trying so hard to give him. 

They’re acting weird, Geralt and Yen. In all the time he’s known them, all the time they’ve been a couple (on and off over the decades, and trust him when he says he appreciates the _off_ far more), they’ve never acted like a couple. They’ve always acted like two alley cats, who hiss and yowl and circle each other, vigorously fuck, claw one another up a bit, and then part ways til it’s time to do it all over again. 

Now, though? Now they’re acting like whatever problems they’d had just magically fucked off, like all of their differences have vanished in a puff of smoke. Yen will sit on Geralt’s lap, and he’ll let her, and they’ll smile and laugh and nudge one another. She’ll press lingering kisses to his chiseled, scruffy jaw and make no complaints about the beard he’s growing out, and he’ll put his arm around her waist and bury his face in her hair like he wants to snort a line of lilac and gooseberries right from the bloody source.

Geralt’s never been one for public affection, and at first he had been skittish about affection in general, like any kindness was a trap, like any good had to be followed by at least twice as much bad. Jaskier treasures every little touch and compliment and kindness he’s allowed to bestow upon Geralt like the gifts they are, because his affection has never been freely given, and affection for him is even less freely accepted. 

Of course, Yennefer never was beholden to the same rules as him.

He wants to be happy for Geralt. After all, his whole reason for wanting Yennefer gone, ostensibly, had always been how incompatible they were, how toxic their relationship was. He should be able to swallow his own stupid jealousy and let Geralt have this and be glad for it. Geralt is allowed so few good things, after all. 

And in a sense, he is happy for him. He feels like his heart could burst whenever he sees Geralt smile, hears him laugh. It’s just that when those laughs and smiles are for Yennefer, he feels like his heart is being ripped out of his chest. It’s a unique experience, to feel both at the same time.

Incidentally, he has had his heart ripped out once or twice, in the literal sense. Jaskier hadn’t always been so good at hiding what he is, and if Geralt thinks he runs headfirst into danger _now_ , he’s pretty sure that if he had known him as a fledgling, younger-Jaskier would have given the witcher a fucking aneurysm.

Though his heart stays firmly, physically in his chest, there’s still a tension between the four of them that he can’t fucking stand. Things boil over, in the end, because of course they do. And things still aren’t resolved when they do, because of course they’re not. 

Here’s the thing: Priscilla is not willing to give up their game, and Jaskier doesn’t know how to just say, _“Oh, Geralt, by the way, Priscilla is actually my sister, not my lover. She thought you were in love with me, so we pretended to be a couple to make you jealous. Anyway, I’m glad you and Yennefer are doing well now, and I hope there are no hard feelings!”_ Gods, for as good as he is with words, there’s no way he could possibly make that not be the most humiliating, painful conversation he’s ever had. 

Of course, his sister recognises that something’s got to give. Instead of ending her little game, she simply decides to change tactics. And, because Geralt will barely talk to her, and Jaskier is honestly a fucking wreck, she goes over both of their heads and arranges a _double date_ with _Yennefer_.

Once the two of them get to scheming, there’s no way for him _or_ Geralt to back out of it. He has no way of knowing for sure what Geralt’s reaction was, but he can pretty safely assume that his answer was something along the lines of either _no_ or _fuck no_. 

They don’t have an option, though, it seems. Fuck, if only Priscilla and Yennefer would just date _each other_ it would solve his problems pretty damn well. But no, Yen is still gone on Geralt and Geralt is even _more_ gone on her, so he could never be so lucky.

Priscilla and Yennefer at least deign to ask their opinions on where the date is going to be, though he’s sure that they won’t actually _listen_ to his and Geralt’s input. Priscilla, when she brainstorms “with” someone, tends to bounce ideas off of them instead, leaving them minor choices to make it feel like they’re still part of it. It’s how she’s always been, and why Mum never let them compose together when they were younger. (He’d been the first in the family to decide to be a bard, to fall in love with music. Priscilla was the first to follow him. No one ever seems to want to admit that he was the first.)

“Well, boys?” Priscilla asks, grinning widely at them. Geralt looks like he’s being handed a death sentence, and Yennefer looks amused in that passive, detached way she always tries to present. 

“Well what?” Jaskier responds, if only because someone has to and he knows Geralt won’t.

Priscilla rolls her eyes in the most exaggerated way. “Where do you want to go?” 

“Can’t we just have it here, at the Chameleon?” Jaskier asks. 

Of course, the look Priscilla gives him is overly scandalised, as though he’d suggested having this disaster of a double date in the sewers. He’s mildly offended. This is a nice establishment, and he and Geralt both worked hard to make it into what it is.

“Sweetheart,” she says in an entirely condescending way, “we _live here_. We’re here every day. A date should be _special_ , and Yennefer can take us anywhere—”

“Not a chance,” Jaskier interrupts flatly, right as Geralt grumbles, “I hate portals.”


	11. Chapter 11

Geralt can’t say that he’s looking forward to this. He also can’t say that he’s not, because it’s not like anyone would listen. Well, anyone that matters — clearly Jaskier is about as excited for this terrible idea as he is. 

He will admit that it’s weird to see the bard _not_ being enthusiastic about some social engagement that Geralt is dreading. Really, it’s weird to see him dreading _any_ sort of social engagement. Even the ones where someone might want to _take his life_ are somehow not to be avoided (and no, he is _not_ going to let that go, Cintra was a _nightmare_ and while he’s glad to have ended up with Ciri now, he still thinks all the rest of it was a complete and utter shitshow). 

It makes sense that Jaskier doesn’t want to go on a date with Priscilla along with Geralt and Yennefer. First of all, the concept of a _double date_ is a stupid fucking idea, because it takes all the intimacy out of a date, which (unless something has changed very suddenly) is pretty much the entire _point_ of a date. 

(Not the fruit — _those_ dates are delicious.) 

Look, the point is he can understand why Jaskier doesn’t want to do this, and not just because it’s a stupid idea in general. Geralt is no fun in social situations, and even though he’s been trying not to show it, he’s pretty sure it’s obvious that he can’t stand to be around Priscilla. Similarly, Jaskier and Yen are like two feral dogs fighting over a scrap of meat. Arguably, the meat might be Geralt’s attention. He still isn’t going to think too deeply about why that might be. 

In the end, of course, it doesn’t matter whether he and Jaskier want to do this. Priscilla says, “Sorry, boys, but you’ve been outvoted.” 

“How is two to two anything but a tie?” Jaskier demands. Apparently he has not gotten to the point in his relationship where he realises that no amount of arguing is going to convince his lover when she has already made up her mind.

Not all relationships are like that, of course. When he was with Triss, she’d let him make decisions, perhaps recognising that he is an adult and not a plaything. (Then again, they'd been together under false pretenses in the first place. Geralt's still not quite forgiven her for that. He's really starting to think that his relationships aren't normal.) It’s just that with Yennefer, all decisions are final, and he is rarely consulted before they’re made. Priscilla and Yennefer seem to be nearly identical in this regard, so he thinks Jaskier is wasting his breath.

“One of us is worth at _least_ one and a half of you,” Yennefer answers smoothly. “That’s me being generous, by the way.”

Jaskier sputters indignantly, and Geralt rolls his eyes. They’re doing a fantastic job of proving that this is a terrible idea. He knows Jaskier and Yennefer can be downright friendly with one another, but he’s never seen it, because they seem physically incapable of _not_ pushing each other’s buttons when he’s around.

Priscilla cuts in smoothly and just loudly enough to get the attention turned squarely to her. “You’re outmatched, at any rate, so save the shouting for the bedroom, please. Now, we can go _anywhere_ you can think of. Show a little creativity! Personally, I know this wonderful little place in Beauclair—”

“Ah, no, nope. Not Toussaint, please,” Jaskier says with that particular grimace he gets when the duchy is mentioned. 

“Oh? Why, what’s in Toussaint?” Yennefer presses, wearing an expression of open, slightly malicious curiosity. 

Ah, right. Geralt never told Yen about _this_ particular affair, for whatever reason. 

“Probably wants to end the night with his head attached,” Geralt answers. He has to fight to keep the smirk off of his face, and he’s pretty sure he doesn’t entirely manage, especially judging by the force of Jaskier’s glare. 

“What did you _do_?” Priscilla demands. 

“The duquessa,” Geralt answers helpfully. Judging by the look on Jaskier’s face, and the irritation he projects towards Geralt, the bard does not find it that helpful.

“Her husband is dead, you’ll be fine,” Priscilla says to her lover. Apparently, Jaskier has only told her the first half of this story. Geralt takes a small amount of delight in watching Jaskier squirm whenever it's brought up, so he suddenly finds himself in a bit of a better mood.

“He is,” responds the witcher. “Anna Henrietta thought their arrangement was exclusive. _Someone_ was unaware, and was caught in the act by the duquessa herself.” 

“Oh, fantastic. You are truly a romantic, Julek,” Priscilla snarks. The pet name only seems to irritate Jaskier further.

“I’ve told you not to call me that,” he bites.

“Mother calls you Julek, but I can’t?” The trobairitz crosses her arms and her glare and stance match Jaskier’s almost perfectly. They look like mirror images of one another, like twins, almost.

“Precisely,” Jaskier says. 

“Her mother gave you a pet name?” Geralt asks, bewildered. How long have they been together that Jaskier has even _met_ her mother? He didn't even know the bard was _capable_ of that level of commitment. 

They both look at him like they’ve forgotten he was even there. “Some people like me, you know,” Jaskier answers, sounding far too defensive. 

“Mother has questionable tastes,” Priscilla adds drily.

“I’ll be sure to let her know your opinion on the matter, dear,” snips Jaskier.

Geralt feels vaguely uncomfortable in the middle of this lovers’ spat of theirs, like he’s an outsider looking in on something private, something he shouldn’t have access to. It feels entirely too intimate. How long have they really known each other? How long have they been together? Why has Geralt never met or heard about this woman who has managed to capture Jaskier's heart and attention so completely? And why is Yennefer looking at them like that?

It’s the same look she has when she’s just figured out the answer to something that had been vexing her, when the answer was something she hadn’t previously considered. It’s part surprise and part chagrin. 

Still, whatever revelation Yennefer may or may not have just had isn’t expounded upon. “Seven Cats,” she say smoothly, and it’s just out of place enough to snap the other two out of their quarrel. 

“I’ve never even gotten Geralt to pet _one_ cat,” Jaskier answers. Priscilla smacks his arm.

“She means the inn, you dullard.”

“It’s called a _joke_ , darling, perhaps you’ve heard of them?”

Priscilla and Jaskier start quibbling again, and Yennefer gives a world-weary sigh. 

“Works for me,” Geralt says. It's close enough that they won't have to portal, at least. While he'd rather just wash his hands of this whole thing, he has a feeling that the conversation is pretty much done, and someone has to answer. It’s not going to be the two poets squabbling like children, that’s for damn sure. He’s decided to tune it out. Their argument seems comfortable, somehow, like there’s no actual malice behind it. It sounds like it’s just something they _do_ , part of their dynamic. If that’s what makes Jaskier happy, fine. Gods know he’s quibbled with Geralt in a similar way countless times before.

Still, he hopes that they get it all out of their system before the evening comes. Otherwise, this date is going to be even more painful than it already would have been.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoa hey I’ve been uploading daily for three months as of today. That’s wild

“Way to go, you’ve fucked up your own stupid game,” Jaskier tells Priscilla the second Geralt and Yen leave them alone.

“I’ve done no such thing,” she sniffs, glaring at him. “First of all, it’s not a _game_ , it’s helping my sweet little brother find love—”

“We’re _twins_ , Prissy.”

“I was turned first,” she argues.

“No, I’m pretty sure we were turned at the same time,” he argues back.

“Don’t be stupid. Mother doesn’t have two mouths,” Priscilla answers.

“We are more than _two centuries_ old,” he retorts. “How can a few seconds possibly matter?”

“Oh, please,” she says, “I’m still a young woman, whereas _you_ are a crotchety old man who doesn’t know what _fun_ is.”

“How can I be a crotchety old man if you’re insisting you’re older than me?” 

She huffs. “Women live longer, which means men age more quickly.”

“That’s for _humans_ , darling.”

“You were human once.”

He grits his teeth. “So were you. At the _same time_ that I was, might I add.”

It’s a centuries-old argument. In fact, their mother has staunchly refused to tell either of them who, exactly, had turned first. Sometimes, he has a suspicion that Essi might hold that coveted information somehow, but she’s about as likely to tell either of them as Mum is. 

Jaskier isn’t actually upset with his sister, and he’s willing to bet that she’s not actually upset with him either. He’s pretty sure that their squabbling had only started, this time, as an outlet for his nervous energy and her frustration with it. Arguing with each other is safe, calming, in the sense that it’s something deeply familiar. It’s how they can keep having the same arguments over and over for centuries without ever coming close to a resolution. They don’t _want_ to resolve it, they want the comfort of having something to fall back on that they’re used to when everything else is overwhelming.

Of course, they have never had to tailor those familiar quarrels to match a situation like this. Falling back on something familiar means they aren’t necessarily thinking about it, and not thinking about it means not being careful, making mistakes. Mistakes like, for example, bringing their mother into it when those around them don’t know that they have the same one.

“I can hear you thinking from here,” she complains. He only rolls his eyes; after all, she’s the first to insist on the difference between her ability and mind-reading. If _he_ were to imply that she could hear his thoughts, he’d get the same lecture he’s heard probably hundreds of times. _I only experience an echo of formative events. I can’t read minds. I wouldn’t want to know what goes on in that head of yours, even if I did._

“We slipped up,” he says instead of all the other things he could say. Realistically, she slipped up, but he has to admit that he had a hand in it. After all, a disagreement takes more than one person, and if she hadn’t brought up the ‘mother card’, he probably would have. 

“It’s fine,” she insists. “He didn’t catch on.”

“It’s not _him_ I’m worried about.”

“Oh,” says Priscilla. “You think Yennefer caught the slip.” It’s not a question.

“Yes.”

“And you think she’s going to tell him?”

Jaskier pauses. “I don’t know,” he answers after a moment. “It depends on if she feels like she has something to gain.”

The question, then, is what would she have to gain by telling her husband that Jaskier and Priscilla are actually siblings? If she figures out that it’s a ruse, he’s worried that she’ll figure out the reason behind it. As much as it pains him, if Geralt and Yen are happy together, he doesn’t want to break them up. If they’ve finally fixed their shit, that’s great. It’s good for them. 

Yennefer, though, might not know that. She might see Jaskier as a threat, go back to the way things were between them in the beginning. The sorceress is something of a rogue variable, as all mages tend to be. Even though Jaskier knows he could never hope to compete with Yennefer of Vengerberg (he has tried, oh, how he has tried), she might not want to take the chance. 

Best case scenario? She says nothing because she wants to watch Jaskier squirm. He doesn’t like it, but until he figures out just what she knows and what she’s going to do about it, they need to act like nothing has changed at all, like they have no idea that this ruse could crumble down around them with just a few words from Yennefer’s lavender-painted lips. And, he tells Priscilla as much.

All they can do is get ready for this disaster of a double date. Yes, they had been arguing, and more or less ignoring the ‘other’ (that is to say, _real_ ) couple, but said couple had been good enough to put up with them for the time it took to finish finalising things. They know they’re going to go to the Seven Cats Inn. Jaskier’s heard good things about the stew there, while he’s sure Geralt is going to get caught up in the gambling. If there’s one thing that can distract the witcher, it’s a good game of Gwent.

Or a bad game of Gwent. Or a mediocre one. The man loves his cards, is the point.

Honestly, they aren’t sure how to dress; the Seven Cats isn’t really a high-end establishment, but he’ll be damned if Yennefer and Geralt outdo him in fashion (specifically Geralt, because he knows Yen isn’t going to allow the witcher to dress himself). Jaskier ends up deciding that his general rule of _it’s better to be overdressed than underdressed_ rings true, as it usually does, and wears one of his finest outfits. Priscilla, for once, is wearing a dress. She usually prefers tights for their comfort and mobility, but she reminds him that yes, she _is_ capable of dressing up, and really, it hasn’t been _that_ long since they’d had to suffer through one of Mother’s banquets together.

Which is fair. He loves the woman, but their mother is a stickler for decorum. It’s one of the rare ways she shows her age. 

Either way, they dress well for the occasion, each wearing a different, complimentary shade of blue. Jaskier only changes his outfit twice before he decides that actually, he looks good, and Priscilla gives him a fond smile, squeezing his hand when it’s time for them to go.

“It’ll be fine. Trust me,” she says. For some reason, he decides that he does.


	13. Interlude: Yennefer

“It turns out we’re both complete fools,” Yennefer says the second they’re alone.

She can’t believe that she hadn’t seen it sooner. Jaskier and Priscilla haven’t even _kissed_. They’ve flirted, but it was too… playful. Intimate in a different way than perhaps it ought to be. The way they act puts the _family_ in _familiar_. It’s the intimacy of childhood friends or siblings, not lovers.

Really, she’s disappointed in herself. Geralt, she understands, because he has the emotional intelligence of a crushed walnut. But _her_? Yennefer is an intelligent, thoughtful woman. She is powerful and formidable. 

She is also, apparently, a fucking idiot.

Maybe Geralt has just rubbed off on her. Is his specific kind of stupidity contagious? Or perhaps she’d simply taken his assessment of the situation at face value. After all, he’s known Jaskier for far longer and is far closer with him than Yennefer ever was or will be. Also, she had been drunk. Still, it’s no excuse. She is, in her own humble opinion, the best damned sorceress alive. Had she really missed something so fucking obvious, trusting _Geralt’s_ judgment on the matter?

What would Ciri think?

“What’d I do this time?” he grunts, crossing his arms. She only rolls her eyes. 

“You didn’t _do_ anything,” she says. “We both missed something incredibly fucking obvious.”

Now he looks alarmed. Trust Geralt to jump to the worst case scenario. Honestly, Yennefer has given up trying to figure out just what doom-and-death scenario he’s concocted in any given situation. It’s far easier to just take it at face value and let him be pleasantly surprised when he _hasn’t_ been stabbed by the end of the day.

“Jaskier and Priscilla.”

“What about them?” he demands. She can tell that his patience is wearing thin. Good, so is hers. Honestly, she’s not surprised that he hasn’t caught on by now, but she’ll admit she’s disappointed. 

If she believed in any Gods she would beg them to save her from this stupid, oblivious headache of a man.

“They aren’t really a couple,” she says.

Geralt raises one snowy eyebrow at her, clearly unimpressed. “Could have fooled me.”

“They _did_ ,” she insists. Really, that’s the entire fucking point she’s trying to make, here! 

“Please, Yen, walk me through your incredible logic,” he deadpans. 

What she wants to say is something to the effect of _I am going to kill you in your sleep_ or _I’ve met insects with more social skills than you_. What she instead says is, “Look at the signs. They quarrel like siblings, and in one of those quarrels she brought up their _mother_.”

“No, she brought up _her_ mother,” argues the infuriating witcher.

“Whom I would bet my last crown is his mother as well. Think about it, for once in your life — have you ever heard about this woman before?”

“No,” he answers with a frown.

“Has he ever been serious enough about one of his paramours to meet their parents?” she continues.

“No, but—”

“Shut up,” she snaps. “Use that brain of yours for once. Do you really think a young woman’s mother would meet _Jaskier_ of all people and _like_ him enough to give him a pet name? Fuck’s sake, Geralt, where would he have had the _time_ to get that close to the girl _and_ her mother? You’ve been apart, what, a month?”

The witcher only crosses his arms and gives her that _look_. It’s his _I don’t believe you, but I need to calculate the best way to convey that without you needlessly dragging this out_ look. She’s always hated that fucking look.

“He could have known her over a long period of time,” he argues. “Regular correspondence—”

“On the road?”

“Maybe they just had a… whirlwind romance,” he says, clearly switching tracks to what he hopes is a more plausible explanation. “Humans don’t have a lot of time, so they rush things. And he’s… he’s getting up there in years, Yen. For a human.” 

Yennefer can tell just how much that thought pains him. It almost tugs at her heartstrings, except for the simple facts that she has put a lot of effort into appearing not to _have_ heartstrings to tug, and she is pretty damned sure that he isn’t actually human.

“Yes,” she bites, voice dripping with sarcasm, “he’s positively ancient. That’s why he still looks like a young man in his twenties.”

“He uses… creams, and things.”

She wants to scream.

“Fine,” she snaps. “If you want to be an idiot, go right ahead. Let’s continue this farce until it blows up in all _four_ of our faces, because they’re about as _romantically involved_ as we are.”

“Yen,” he says gently, perhaps attempting to soothe her ire, “it just doesn’t make _sense_. What would be the point of them pretending to be together at all? It makes even less sense to pretend to be in love with her if she’s his _sister_.”

 _Let it be known that Yennefer of Vengerberg died of a witcher-stupidity induced aneurysm_ , she thinks to herself. She can feel her eye twitch. 

“You’re right,” she says. “It makes about as much sense as _you_ pretending to still be romantically involved with your _ex-wife_.”

Really. Really? Really! The nerve, the gall, the _stupidity_ of this man! He’s pretending to be in love with his ex-wife to make Jaskier jealous because Geralt loves Jaskier but doesn’t think Jaskier loves him back. Is it really that much of a stretch to assume that Jaskier is enacting the same harebrained scheme for the same stupid reason with his sister?

The conversation is clearly over, but she knows that this is only the beginning. After all, they have a double date to attend, and Yennefer is going to watch it all unfold very carefully.


	14. Chapter 14

Yennefer is being ridiculous. So Priscilla and Jaskier are acting weird — Jaskier _is_ weird. It would be more strange if he were acting _normal_. Geralt will admit that he doesn’t know Priscilla very well, but she’s Jaskier’s perfect match, so he doesn’t think it’s strange for her to be weird as well. 

Seriously. Siblings? He really doesn’t understand where she gets these ideas. Besides, Zoltan is the one who told him Jaskier and Priscilla were together in the first place, before he even met the woman. Are they trying to make _Zoltan_ jealous? It just doesn’t make any sense.

Yen can think whatever she wants. He’s got enough to deal with being locked into this harebrained scheme of hers, so if she wants to project her doubts over her stupid, drunken idea onto a real couple, she can do that by herself.

Geralt, of course, doesn’t even try to choose his own clothes for the evening. He knows better, though he’s still going to bitch and moan just a little about how much he hates the tight feeling of new doublets, on principle. Yennefer only ever wears black and white, so of course he’s dressed to match her. It’s a lot like King Bran’s recent funeral in that regard, though _of course_ she wouldn’t just let him wear the same outfit this time. Something about Skellige fashion being out of place in Novigrad, as if he could really give a damn about that sort of thing.

Of course, when they show up and see Jaskier and Priscilla, he’s almost a little thankful for it.

He’ll be the first to admit that he doesn’t know a damn thing about fashion and he cares even less. Clothes serve a function, and beyond that it doesn’t really matter. Yes, he has his own aesthetic preferences, but not to the extent that all of the significant people in his life seem to. There are things that look good and he appreciates them. There are things that look bad and he avoids them. There are things that just are, and he uses them.

Geralt will never admit it, but he likes the way Jaskier looks. He likes his colourful doublets and his high-waisted trousers and his horribly impractical boots and his jewelry. It’s just very _Jaskier_. Geralt would never wear these things himself, but he’s not blind. They look good on the other man. Tonight, Jaskier is looking good, as always, because he thrives under any excuse to get dressed up. Priscilla… she looks nice too. They match. She has a dress.

Here’s a good setup for a joke, he thinks: a witcher, a sorceress, and two bards walk into a tavern. Now, if only he could find the punchline.

“You two look stunning,” Priscilla says, not unkindly, with a polite smile. Yennefer smiles back and returns the sentiment. At least the women are hitting it off. Maybe they can distract each other enough that Geralt can find a good moment to slip away. He sees a few people playing Gwent over in the corner…

“Geralt, no,” Yen barks. 

He glowers at her, grumbling, “I’m a Wolf witcher, not a dog.”

She simply rolls her eyes, entirely unimpressed. “Hush and sit. There’s a good boy.”

Priscilla seems to be fighting off a laugh, and even Jaskier’s mouth is twitching up at the corners ever so slightly. Geralt knows that the bard has never been a fan of Yennefer’s treatment of either of them, though unlike his brothers, he’s gotten better at figuring out when she’s joking, and when she’s actually being an asshole. It seems as though he’s realised that in this situation it is the former. 

If Geralt knows Jaskier (which, he had fucking better; how long have they been friends now?) he’s willing to bet that the bard is simply trying to maintain a bad mood to showcase his displeasure at the whole ‘double date’ idea. He can be so masterfully contrary, sometimes Geralt imagines that his first words out of the womb were _you can’t tell me what to do_. 

“Woof,” the witcher deadpans, and _that_ sends Jaskier into a fit of giggles. Good. He likes to hear Jaskier laugh, and at this point he’ll do just about anything to make this evening more bearable. 

(Gods, it’s only just started, too.)

The four of them sit at a table in the corner and order stew and ale or wine when the barmaid comes by. Perhaps it’s because they’re all dressed nicely, or perhaps the other three take the attention away from Geralt, or perhaps the owner doesn’t remember the rare card Geralt won from her the last time he was here, but whatever the reason no one spits in his food or drink and, all in all, he’s treated rather politely. That is to say, he’s mostly ignored, which is his preference.

“So,” Yennefer says with a smile that sets Geralt on edge, “how did you two meet?”

Jaskier shoots a strange look at Priscilla, who ignores him entirely in favour of smiling at Yennefer. “It was a bardic competition,” she answers mildly. She launches into the story of how she’d won and Jaskier, despite his fame, had taken it very well when he’d gotten second place. She tells them that she hadn’t expected him to be such pleasant company, but he’d quickly disabused her of the thought. Jaskier says something about letting her win, and they sort of flirt and banter some more, and Geralt tries to focus on his stew rather than the sickeningly sweet young couple in front of him.

Then, apparently still not giving up, Yennefer tells them that it was a lovely story, and how long ago was it that they’d met? Priscilla hums thoughtfully, says something to the effect of, “Oh, it feels like I’ve known him all my life, and yet sometimes it seems like it was just yesterday!” Yen’s eyes narrow slightly, like she doesn’t trust that answer, which is fucking ridiculous because that’s just how young people _are_ when they’re in love, _especially_ poets. How many times has Jaskier given him an answer like that whenever he asks anything about the bard’s past? 

It’s just what poets are like. It’s not that deep.

The strangest part of this is how Yennefer and Priscilla seem to be in their own little world, how they barely pay Geralt and Jaskier any mind. It’s as if the men are just accessories and the women are on a date of their own. 

Which, honestly, Geralt doesn’t mind. He doesn’t want to make small talk or flirt with Yennefer while Jaskier flirts with Priscilla. The whole thing seemed painfully awkward as a concept when he assumed that was what they’d be doing, and he’s glad that he and Jaskier can just spend time together and talk. If he ignores the women the way they ignore the two of them, it’s hardly any different from all the times Geralt and Jaskier have sat across from one another in taverns. It’s comfortable, almost domestic. 

He can’t imagine life without Jaskier anymore.

The conversation stays mild, and Geralt’s contribution to it is mostly hums, grunts, snark, and bad puns. Every time Jaskier groans and rolls his eyes at something Geralt says, the witcher feels like he’s won something. When he describes the Berserker attack at Kaer Trolde, before Cerys had become the High Queen of Skellige, as ‘un- _bear_ -able’, all _three_ of them groan, and he has to fight back a grin.

“On that note, I think I need some fresh air,” Yennefer says with a little smirk. He knows she’s at least a tiny bit amused — after all, they’ve had how many pun-offs over the years? Geralt always wins, but she participates, so he considers her almost as bad as him. “Priscilla, darling, would you care to accompany me?”

And the trobairitz agrees, leaving just Geralt and Jaskier in the tavern. 

There’s something in the air now. It’s not tangible, more of a feeling. The air feels charged with something, though he knows it’s not magic because his medallion is still against his chest and he can’t smell the ozone scent of chaos. There’s just a sort of tension that he can’t really identify, a heat, like if he cast Igni the whole damned tavern would go off like one of Lambert’s fishing bombs. 

And then Jaskier laughs and tells Geralt he can finally join that Gwent game he’d been eyeing earlier, and the whole thing snaps like a tightly-wound lute string and vanishes as if he’d been imagining it all along.


	15. Interlude: Priscilla

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm gonna say it now: I'm sorry. I'm sorry that I've somehow made a number of people ship Yennefer and Priscilla, because it's not where they're headed. Yennefer is aromantic and Priscilla is going to be her sister-level best friend. They love each other, but not romantically.

Perhaps Jaskier had been right about Yennefer after all. 

Well, not in every sense, or really in any sense but the one. Yennefer doesn’t seem evil (mostly), and definitely doesn’t seem to be infatuated with Geralt (honestly, does her brother have _eyes_? How can a _bard_ be so bad at reading interpersonal relationships?). She very likely does not devour the flesh of men (except in a figurative sense but, she thinks, _don’t we all?_ ). 

However, it seems as though she is definitely on to them. 

“Finally,” Yennefer sighs, leaning back against the wall of the tavern. The drunkards that usually loiter about outside are giving them a wide berth, and Priscilla is sure that it has _everything_ to do with that _look_ the sorceress keeps pinning anyone who tries to stumble too close. “Now that we’re away from those idiots, we can speak plainly.”

Priscilla sighs. Nothing for it, she supposes, though she’s not going to confess to anything that she isn’t directly accused of. There’s no sense in an admission of guilt when you’re not even sure what the other person knows. It’s a good way to dig one’s own grave, and while she’s pretty sure she can be considered deceased by a technicality, she’d like to remain firmly above ground. 

So, she hops up, perching her bottom on the railing and crossing her ankles. It’s a lot easier when she’s wearing tights, but it’s not as though she’s never climbed in a dress before, much to Mother’s consternation. She’s a performer, and what performer worth her salt doesn’t have a sense of balance? 

“Let’s hear it, then,” she says. 

Yennefer raises one immaculate eyebrow, as though she had actually expected Priscilla to crack under that little bit of pressure. _Please_. 

“What is he to you?”

The trobairitz hums, pretending to consider. “Well, I’m not really sure, to be honest. I’ve only recently met him,” she says, and something like smugness flashes behind Yennefer’s violet eyes. “I suppose he isn’t really anything to me, at the moment. For some reason, Geralt avoids me like the Catriona.”

By the look of her, Yennefer doesn’t seem to know whether she wants to smirk or scowl. “I mean, what is _Jaskier_ to you?”

Priscilla tilts her head, feeling a smugness of her own now. “Ah! Well, that’s different. He’s very dear to me. Simply put, I love him with all my heart.”

See, just because she now _can_ speak plainly, doesn’t mean she actually _will_ just yet.

Unfortunately, this little word game doesn’t really get a chance to reach its full potential, because Yennefer is very direct now. “But you’re not _in_ love with him.”

“An important distinction,” answers Priscilla, neither confirming nor denying the accusation.

Yennefer sighs, sounding very put-upon, and apparently decides to switch tactics altogether. “Geralt and I are not a couple.”

And, honestly, the suddenness and enormity of the confession throw Priscilla off of her game. “But… I thought you were _married_ ,” she says, brow furrowing in confusion. “My brother played at the wedding—”

Fuck. Yennefer looks at her in an entirely too predatory way, like the cat that got the cream. Her grin is all teeth. She would make for a good vampire in aesthetics alone. “I knew it.”

With a sigh, Priscilla says, “Fine. We’ll speak plainly, then. Jaskier is my idiot twin brother, who has been exhaustingly and disgustingly enamoured with your apparent idiot ex-husband for decades now.”

“Why pretend to be together, then?” Yennefer asks. 

“I don’t know anymore,” she confesses. “Geralt came by maybe a month or two ago, and he and Zoltan came to my performance, and I could just tell he hated me from the beginning. And that’s when I realised, or at least very strongly suspected, that my brother’s feelings were returned. But the lout wouldn’t _believe_ me! And I thought that, well, if Jaskier won’t listen, and Geralt already thinks we’re together… why not try to make him jealous enough to confess his feelings?”

“A few flaws in that plan of yours,” says Yennefer. “Namely, that Geralt of Rivia is the absolute biggest self-sacrificing moron I have ever met. If he thinks the two of you are happy together, he isn’t going to try to get in the middle of it. Which is why _we_ have been pretending to still be together. I managed to convince him that if Jaskier was jealous of _us_ then he wasn’t serious about _you_.”

“Except my brother has been jealous of you since the beginning.”

And then Yennefer explains the djinn. She explains that magic had more or less forced them to stay together, or at least keep getting back together, and without it they would have just been friends decades ago. She then reveals that this magic has now been broken, and as soon as it had been, Geralt had been able to realise his feelings; and, when he did, he went to confess them, only to find…

Well, damn.

“So technically, this is all Zoltan’s fault,” Priscilla says, kicking her legs just for something to do. Yennefer cracks a smile at that.

“It does appear that way. The only question now is, how do we fix it?”

Honestly? She likes this woman. There’s something about her that Priscilla can’t quite place. It might have to do with her _vampire ability_ , over which she has a _very_ tenuous level of control. She can experience a person’s most formative moments, much like an oneiromancer experiences dreams, only she can’t take anyone along with her (as far as she’s aware). She’s looked at Yennefer and seen… flashes, brief and _strong_ even though she hadn’t been trying. A pig pen, portals, a broken mirror, a flower, and, for some reason, the phrase _four marks_. She’s afraid that if she looks at her, she’ll see _more_ , and she knows it’s not hers to see. 

There’s something about Yennefer. Priscilla wants to figure her out for herself.


	16. Chapter 16

Priscilla has been spending a lot of time with Yennefer, lately. Jaskier is no fool, he knows that there's something going on. The two of them are scheming, conniving nightmare women on their own, but together? The possibilities are as endless as they are horrifying. 

And it's not like Priscilla will tell him what's going on between them. Whenever he asks, it's the same thing: she rolls her eyes, or pouts, or scoffs, and tells him something along the lines of, "A woman must have _some_ secrets, you know," or, "We can't _all_ have only idiots for friends," or simply, "It's really none of your business, Julek." 

It hasn't done anything for his nerves, that's for damn sure.

So Priscilla and Yennefer go out all day or all night or sometimes both, or they gossip and giggle (Priscilla giggles; he honestly can't imagine Yen ever doing anything of the sort) while they talk in hushed tones and steal obvious glances at Geralt and Jaskier. He's pretty sure that this, at least, is entirely done to drive him up the fucking wall. 

The worst part is, he can't say it isn't working.

One would think that all the time they spend with each other would mean he and Geralt are free to spend time together of their own, but that's not the case either. Geralt keeps finding contracts, or fucking off to that abandoned house that he had insisted he wasn't able to un-haunt (which is bullshit, really; Jaskier knows him well enough that he'd be willing to bet that whatever creature lives there, Geralt simply decided they deserved the house more than the man who bought it. He's very predictable when it comes to morality and the rights of thinking monsters). Or he'll go play Gwent — once, he rode all the way to Crow's Perch because he heard the Baron had a rare card and Geralt just _had_ to play him for it. Oh, or he'll go on these scavenger hunts, running all over the place because he found some ancient map that hints at a possible location of diagrams for ancient witcher gear. 

The point is, Geralt is keeping busy, and Jaskier has his own cabaret to run anyway. When they do get the time to just sit and talk, Geralt is... not quite himself. 

Saying _“Geralt is acting strange”_ is like saying _“the sun came up today.”_ No shit, it would be alarming if that _didn’t_ happen. Still, Geralt _is_ acting strange, for himself. It’s like he has some kind of secret he doesn’t want to share, only it’s not like that at all because if that were the case he’d just tell Jaskier to fuck off. 

Whenever Jaskier tries to talk to him, Geralt’s all… melancholy. None of his usual dry humour, either — it’s like he’s being trailed by an overwhelming cloud of sadness or something. He keeps staring off into space, like he’s lost in thought, and won’t listen to a damned thing Jaskier says. The way the witcher looks at him is disconcerting too, by the way — it’s like the look he gets when children run screaming from him, that sad, lost look, like the little boy who’d been handed off to become a witcher is still living in his eyes. He looks haunted, almost. 

And of course Yennefer is around, but Geralt’s weird about her, too. Jaskier is more than used to Geralt dropping everything to take his place by her side like a good little lap dog, zeroing in on her and blocking out everyone and everything else. The thing is, Geralt isn’t quite doing that. He seems to get distracted from her, too. No, if anyone has Geralt’s attention lately, it’s Priscilla.

He refuses to say more than three words to her, but he keeps asking about her — how are things going between them, is Jaskier happy, are they treating one another well, and so on. It’s not like Geralt to ask so many direct questions about Jaskier’s affairs, real or imagined. And on top of that, he keeps giving her these _looks_ when he thinks no one is looking. It’s uncomfortably similar to the looks he gives when he’s trying to figure out which townsperson is actually the monster he’s supposed to remove from their village.

Fuck. Oh, no.

“Prissy,” Jaskier hisses insistently, one hand at her elbow. “I need to talk to you. Immediately, if possible.”

Maybe she can tell that the barely-concealed panic in his voice is genuine, or maybe she’s just bored. Either way, she hooks their arms together like they’re about to be presented at a ball, and leads him away.

“I think he suspects that you’re not human,” Jaskier tells her. He doesn’t even wait for her to ask why he’d needed to speak with her, just blurts it out. 

Priscilla, however, only raises a single blonde eyebrow. “Okay. Is that a problem?”

Jaskier gapes at her. “Of course it’s a bloody problem!” he insists. 

“Why?” she counters. “It’s not like he can hurt me. And besides, he shouldn’t have a problem with what we are. He was friends with Uncle Regis, wasn’t he?”

He feels the familiar pang of sadness that comes with remembering what happened to the older vampire. It’s not like he won’t be back, but it’s going to take so _long_. The man was _melted_ , nothing more than a bloody smear, and Geralt hadn’t even thought to scoop some of him up so Jaskier could help him reform. He may not be strong enough (he's still a bit young, after all), but he’s sure that Mother would gladly take care of Uncle Regis through his recovery. 

That’s the problem, though: Geralt hadn’t thought to scoop some of him up so Jaskier could help him reform because Geralt not only didn’t know that the elder vampire wasn’t truly dead, but that Jaskier is the same as him.

Through their time together in Geralt’s hansa, they pretended not to know one another. Every so often they’d break off from the rest of the group to chat, or they’d speak in a coded way that wouldn’t belie their relation. Uncle Regis always knew and respected Jaskier’s desire to pretend to be human, to live amongst them. Most of their kind is the same way, after all; Jaskier is just one of the few that tries to follow the limelight, rather than avoid notice.

“Yes, he was, but I… you know I’ve never told him I’m a vampire as well.”

She sighs. “Yes, and you know how stupid I’ve always thought you for it.”

“I’m well aware, and you can say ‘I told you so’ later, but the fact of the matter is I’ve been lying to him for decades now and if he finds out that you’re a vampire he might try to bring it up with me and I can’t keep lying to him, I’ll have to tell him I know and I’m very worried about how that conversation is going to go.” He knows that he’s rambling, but it’s a terrible nervous habit he’s never quite been able to shake. 

Priscilla pins him with a shrewd, searching look. “If he doesn’t understand why you’d hide it, he doesn’t deserve you. You must know that.”

And look, he understands the sentiment. It’s just that… he’s afraid. He doesn’t want this to be the thing that finally drives Geralt away. He doesn’t want _anything_ to be that last straw. 

It seems that he doesn’t need to say anything. He supposes that, after more than two hundred years, she can read him like a children’s book. She sighs, and puts her hand on his shoulder in a gentle, comforting sort of way, and says, “Look, it will be fine. Believe me. I need to go meet Yennefer now, but if you’re still worried, we can talk more about it when I get back. Alright?”

Jaskier bites his lip and nods, pulls her into a fierce hug that she returns with just as much strength. What he doesn’t know is how much he’ll think about this hug in the coming days, or why. If he did, he’d never let her leave.


	17. Chapter 17

Geralt will fully admit that he's been avoiding Jaskier. He's also been avoiding Yennefer and Priscilla, because usually if he's nearby when Yennefer is cooking up some scheme, he has no choice but to be involved. 

It's just that this whole situation is entirely too stressful. He can't stand this kind of shit — the manipulation and the mind games and the false pretenses. He needs time to think, and he always has a better time of it when he's alone and doing something. It's a good way to maintain focus when he has a to-do list, so he starts chaining contracts and taking up any job or treasure hunt. If he wasn't a witcher, he would try his hand at cartography, because he's pretty sure he's found every damned place of interest in Velen by now. 

Jaskier has a good thing going for him. He is finally in a relationship that he clearly wants to stay in, with someone who deserves him. Priscilla has the same occupation and interests and values, is human and safe. She can offer him a stability that Geralt simply can't. Geralt loves Jaskier, which is why he knows he needs to let this go, to distance himself so he doesn't fuck up someone else's happiness the way he always fucks up his own. Jaskier deserves better.

He's just about to set out for Toussaint, thinking that maybe when he gets over this, when it isn't so raw, he can come back and explain and maybe Jaskier will want him as a friend again. He's only just left Novigrad when he hears Yennefer's voice from his saddlebags.

"Geralt? Geralt, can you hear me?" 

He pulls Roach to a stop and digs through his things, finding the xenovox that Keira gave him not too long ago. 

"What is it?" he asks, a little irritated at being caught before he can leave.

"Thank fuck, he answered," he hears her murmur. Then, to him, she says, "Where are you?"

"Just left Novigrad, why?" He figures the less he says, the better. If he tells her what he's planning (running away, though he hates to admit it), she'll try to stop him — and besides, he doesn't know who else is listening in.

"You need to come back right now."

He snarls. "Yen, what's so—"

"Priscilla's hurt, Geralt," Yen snaps. "Badly."

Just when Geralt's about to ask what that has to do with him — because it's not like he doesn't want to help, but he doesn't know how he _could_ ; after all, he's no healer — he hears Jaskier's voice over the xenovox. 

"Let me talk to him." The bard's voice is choked, like he's been crying, like he hasn't quite stopped. His voice gets closer (he's probably holding the xenovox, now). "Geralt, please. We need you. _I_ need you. Please, help find whoever did this."

It was an attack, then. "Alright," he says, and spurs Roach back towards the city.

**

He finds the three of them — Jaskier, Yennefer, and Priscilla — in the Vilmerius Hospital, with a doctor who introduces himself as Dr Joachim von Gratz. There’s something about the doctor, though, that isn’t quite right. Usually, medical professionals don’t just let sorceresses flit around the room and do things to their patients, and they definitely don’t act like they can’t see it happening.

As if she’s reading his mind (and he wouldn’t put it past her, usually, but she seems to be occupied with more important things), Yennefer says, “He’s being compelled, Geralt. This is a very delicate situation, and there are things he simply can’t be allowed to see or hear.”

He knows better than to argue, no matter what he may feel about the situation. Instead, he takes a look at Priscilla. She’s unconscious, which is probably for the best. Her face is swollen and bruised, and there are burns around her mouth and throat. Whoever attacked her wanted it to hurt.

“Geralt,” Jaskier says, not taking his eyes off of the injured trobairitz, “we need to talk.”

That’s not generally a good thing to hear. “Go ahead,” he says in what he hopes is a gentle tone. He doesn’t need to make this situation any harder on the bard than it has to be.

The bard takes a deep, shuddering breath, steeling himself for whatever it is he’s about to say. “I know how important it is for you to get all the facts before a hunt. We don’t have a lot of time, and you need to know what you’re looking for. A vampire did this.”

Geralt feels his brow furrow. This doesn’t look like a vampire attack. She doesn’t have fang marks and isn’t suffering from blood loss. Clearly, there’s something he’s missing. “How do you know?”

“Only a higher vampire could have done this to her. Nothing else could have hurt her like this.”

It takes half a second for Geralt to understand what Jaskier is really saying. “Your girlfriend is a higher vampire?”

And really, he doesn’t know what kind of answer or reaction he is or should be expecting, but he’s pretty damned sure that a sharp, bitter, humourless bark of laughter doesn’t make the list. “No,” says Jaskier, “my sister is.”

Admittedly, that takes him a little longer to wrap his head around. His first thought is _Yen was right_ and his second is _does this mean that Jaskier…?_ but what comes out of his mouth is, “You never told me you have a sister.”

Once again, Jaskier’s reaction surprises him, though this time perhaps it shouldn’t. The bard just starts laughing, in that hysterical way one does when they’ve just been through something traumatic and haven’t yet had the time to process it. He’s half-laughing, half-sobbing, and Geralt just doesn’t know what to _do_ with this breakdown. Geralt’s never been the best at offering words of comfort, so he walks over to the hysterical bard and simply wraps him up in a bear hug. 

It’s not like he doesn’t hug. He hugs Ciri all the time. He hugs his brothers when they’re drunk. He hugs Jaskier, too, when the situation calls for it. This is absolutely one of those situations, so Yen really shouldn’t be looking as surprised as she is. 

When Jaskier has calmed down enough, he doesn’t move from the embrace. “You know,” says the bard, “Of all the things you could have said, you had to pick the one I never expected.”

“Now you know how I feel,” says Geralt. He does pull back, so that he can look at his bard. “We can talk about it later, though. Right now, I have a vampire to find.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I need to explain very quickly: in the game he says he's a higher vampire but game mechanics have him actually be a katakan, which is technically a _type_ of higher vampire but not a Higher Vampire. That said, I'm ignoring and/or changing a lot of shit that actually happened in the game, and ignoring game mechanics and having him be a Higher Vampire instead of a katakan worked better for the story, so I did that. 
> 
> Also I know I'd be anxious if I were reading instead of writing this, so let me just say that everything I write has a happy ending. It just sometimes takes a while to get there. 
> 
> Final note: I am reading every comment, but a lot of them I just can't reply to because I don't trust myself not to give anything away and by time I upload the part I didn't want to give away, I feel like it would be weird for me to reply. I appreciate the hell outta you guys, but you're too smart for your own good lmao


	18. Chapter 18

It turns out that Priscilla is not the first victim. She is, however, the only one who survived, which means Geralt doesn’t have to worry about questioning witnesses just yet. What’s even more fortunate is that the doctor (who Jaskier had compelled not to notice anything amiss, because they need a doctor to keep Priscilla in this hospital room, but they can’t risk him being a part of this beyond that) knows how to break them into the morgue. 

That’s fantastic, really. Geralt can look for clues, examine the bodies, hopefully pick up a trail — and the good doctor will be entirely out of their way, with no one else being the wiser. 

Now that he’s left with his thoughts, Jaskier can’t stop playing it over in his head, everything that led up to this. 

Priscilla had left the Chameleon to go see Yennefer at Crippled Kate’s. Jaskier hadn’t expected to see either of them until either late at night, or sometime the next day, so it was honestly a surprise when Yennefer walked in only an hour later. What was more surprising — and what had made alarm bells start going off in his head — was the fact that Priscilla was not with her.

“Where’s Priscilla?” he asked. 

Yennefer frowned at him. “You haven’t seen her, then?”

“I did, about an hour ago. She said she was going to meet you,” he answered.

“She never came,” Yennefer told him. And honestly, that wasn’t like her. Priscilla isn’t the type to stand someone up like that, never has been. Even though there’s very little that can truly hurt them, that knowledge did nothing to ease his panic at all, because he knew that there are still things that _can_. 

With Yennefer’s magic, they’d tracked Priscilla down, and found her… like this. Jaskier thought he saw someone fleeing when they came running, but he didn’t know what direction they’d gone or even what they looked like. Besides, he couldn’t follow, because he needed to do everything he could to keep Priscilla _stable_. The way she’d been hurt, he’d just _known_ that it had to have been one of their kind. Otherwise, she’d have been starting to heal already. And if it was a higher vampire that did this… from the moment he realised it, he’s been afraid that if this kills her, she won’t come back.

Yen had been able to portal them to the hospital, and Dr Joachim had recognised him from his Academy days. After all, the man had been the primary instructor of Shani, one of his best friends at the time. Jaskier knows he must have been a sight, stepping through a portal with a brutally injured, unconscious woman. If it were another doctor who’d seen him first, he doesn’t know what would have happened, if they’d have gotten the help they needed quickly enough. Fortunately, all they’d needed from him was a room, and the medical equipment therein.

“You know,” the sorceress says, snapping him out of the memory, “this seems strangely familiar.”

It takes him a few beats to realise what she means. Now that she mentions it, this does remind him a lot of how they’d met.

“You’re right. And here I thought I was special,” he teases. 

“What is it with your family and needing my help with life-threatening throat injuries caused by rare magical creatures?” she taunts back. 

He shrugs. “If we’re lucky, we’ll be the only two.”

“If we were lucky, it wouldn’t have happened once.”

Honestly, he can’t argue that. Once again, Jaskier goes uncharacteristically silent. Yen had been able to open Priscilla’s throat enough that she could take in some of Jaskier’s blood, and it’s been helping. Along with Yen’s magic, Priscilla is already looking better, and he knows that she’s more likely than not to pull through.

That doesn’t make it much better, though. He can’t stand seeing her in pain like this. She isn’t conscious now, but she had been, and she will be, and he can’t fucking take this. He wants so badly to go get some air, to clear his head, but he doesn’t dare leave her side, not yet. 

Instead, he sinks back into his memories. He hadn’t known at the time if Yennefer was aware of what he and Priscilla are. She could have found out when healing him from the djinn all those years ago, or from Priscilla herself, or from her mind-reading bullshit, or any number of things. She could also have had no clue, and Jaskier would rather state something she already knew than have her try to help, entirely unaware of what steps to take. 

So, as soon as he’d set Priscilla on the bed, he’d compelled the doctor. It’s not often that he uses his voice, and the power it contains, to make people do what he wants. He uses his ability more than Priscilla uses hers, compelling those he feeds from to forget about it, or compelling his audiences not to notice his aging, but there’s something about it that makes him feel sort of dirty, if he uses it when it isn’t absolutely necessary. 

This, of course, had been absolutely necessary.

He’d made it very clear that the good doctor would not notice anything amiss. He and Yennefer are family, there for moral support, and he will not get in their way or question anything they do. 

“If you didn’t know by now,” he had told Yennefer, “we aren’t human.”

“If I didn’t know by now, that little display would have been more than enough to convince me,” the sorceress had quipped back.

She hadn’t wasted any time. He asked if she knew how to make a regeneration potion for higher vampires, and wasn’t surprised to learn that she didn’t. After all, nearly everything about them is a closely-guarded secret. Fortunately, his mother had made sure that they could recite it at the drop of a hat before they’d left home, just in case. She had always said, _”I’d prefer you never have to use it, but I’d rather you know it and never use it than not know it if you do need to.”_

Thank the Gods, he hadn’t forgotten. _Leshen fang, sankurum, althantra, broth made of young mandrake roots. Grind the larger ingredients, add the smaller ones whole. Boil everything in a bronze kettle using crystal water. Consume the mixture twice daily in half measure doses. Do not exceed the recommended dosage._

“Jaskier,” says Yennefer. He blinks at her, a little lost. She looks frustrated, so he’s willing to bet it’s not the first time she’s tried getting his attention in the past few minutes. 

“Sorry,” he answers. 

She sighs, then puts a hand on his shoulder. It’s far more gentle than he even thought Yennefer was capable of, in regards to him. “She’s going to be okay.”

He knows that she’s worried, too. She cares about Priscilla. They’ve become close, in a shockingly short amount of time. His sister has always been good at getting under people’s skin like that, making friends wherever she goes. 

Right now, they just need to do what they can. He just has to believe that Yennefer is right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The recipe for the regeneration potion can be picked up in Regis' hideout in Blood and Wine. I didn't make it up lol


	19. Chapter 19

Getting through the sewers isn’t difficult, so much as it is irritating. Geralt doesn’t know why Novigrad’s sewer systems are basically just tunnels that lead to every hidden place in the city, or why no one ever bothers to lock the sewer grates, and he certainly doesn’t know how the drowners that live down there haven’t just come up into the city proper and started eating people, because it’s not like it wouldn’t be easy for them. 

Either way, he and the doctor make their way to the morgue together, and he learns a little bit here and there about the man’s colourful past. The good doctor is one of those people who seems to not want to share anything about his past, but makes it very obvious that he has something to hide. Geralt can’t help but think that it would be a lot easier to avoid unwanted questions if the man stopped acting so suspicious. 

Whatever the doctor may or may not have been or done in his past doesn’t concern Geralt. What is important to the witcher is examining the bodies, finding a clue, anything he can use to track Priscilla’s would-be killer. He examines the victim before her, a dwarf, and learns more about what, exactly, Priscilla had been through at the hands of her assailant. The most useful thing, though, is what he finds in the body: a note, written on human skin, bearing Priscilla’s name. The vampire is leaving clues.

Just as Geralt is telling the doctor his conclusion — the burns and ritualistic nature of the murders makes him think this was religiously motivated, and honestly it isn’t strange to think that the Eternal Fire is inspiring serial killers — the door opens and in steps two men. The first is younger, the second an older man dressed in the robes of a Priest of the Eternal Fire. Of course, Geralt takes note of that almost immediately, but says nothing.

The younger man, who identifies himself as the coroner, tells the Reverend, Nathaniel Pastodi, that they are family of the deceased, and the Reverend rages against them being there. The coroner apologises and shows them out, then immediately gets into an argument with the doctor. 

Something about this argument gets Geralt’s attention. The coroner — one Hubert Rejk — looks to be about Jaskier’s age. Well, the age Jaskier appears to be, at any rate. And really, how did he never catch on that Jaskier was a vampire? He supposes that Vesemir was right, that when someone becomes important to a person, it’s easier for that person to ignore the things they might not want to see. He knows that humans don’t live a long time, but he hadn’t wanted to be aware of it, so he’d ignored any signs of Jaskier aging. The thing is, apparently, he’d also ignored the fact that there were none.

He can think about how oblivious he’d been later, though, because what’s important right now is catching the serial killer before he kills again. Apparently, Hubert had known Joachim when one of them was a student at Oxenfurt. The thing is, it would make sense if Joachim had been Hubert’s instructor. 

It was, in fact, the other way around.

This man, who looks no older than his forties (and he’d be a very young and healthy forty, if he was that old) had taught medicine and anatomy to this old man _thirty_ years ago. 

Honestly, Geralt doesn’t know if he would have put the pieces together nearly as quickly if he didn’t already know he was looking for a vampire. He’s just glad he’d had that information from the beginning, because he’s pretty sure he’s already found the culprit. 

A pale man who works with corpses, in the dark, under the employ of the Eternal Fire, and is far older than he looks? The last person to see the bodies before they’re tossed on the pyre? 

It’s him. It has to be.

Still, he has to be sure. And it would be a hell of a lot easier to catch him if he doesn’t know that Geralt suspects him. Geralt isn’t generally the biggest fan of espionage, but it’s not like he’s never done it. Right now it seems imperative, because he may be good at what he does, but that doesn’t mean shit against a higher vampire.

Fortunately, it seems that Hubert wants to make it easy for him. Well, not really — more likely, he wants to deliberately mislead Geralt. They’re playing a dangerous game where each wants the other to trust him, but neither wants to raise suspicion. Luckily for him, Geralt has the benefit of knowing something that, as far as Hubert is aware, he absolutely shouldn’t.

The witcher continues his investigation for the sake of keeping up appearances, but keeps an eye on the coroner. He gets the xenovox out and tells Yen that he has a lead, and to make sure her xenovox is on hand, but he doesn’t say anything more. He doesn’t want to report to Yen and Jaskier just yet, for two reasons: the first is that he doesn’t want either of them to jump the gun and go after the coroner until he’s sure. Neither of them is predictable, especially in situations like this, where someone they care about has been hurt. They’d both be out for blood, and it’s not like he isn’t, but the difference is that he can keep a level head where he’s not sure they would be able to do the same. The second issue is, of course, that he wants to bother them as little as possible. They’re both trying to keep Priscilla alive. The less he distracts them, the more of a chance the trobairitz has of a full recovery.

He can’t help but feel like an asshole. From the beginning he’d known that he didn’t dislike Priscilla, but her relationship with Jaskier. He’d tried to be civil even though he couldn’t stand being around her because of what she’d represented. Now that he knows that wasn’t real, he just feels bad. He wishes he’d known that Priscilla was Jaskier’s sister, because she _does_ seem like a good person, and he’s sure he at least wouldn’t dislike her. Anyone important to Jaskier is important to him, and even when he’d still thought they were lovers, he would have worked just as hard to bring her attacker to justice. When she gets better, he’s going to apologise. 

Yes, she tricked him, but it was a harmless trick in the grand scheme of things. She didn’t try to put him in any danger, and he’s sure it wasn’t out of malice, or Jaskier never would have agreed to it.

Actually… shit. Yennefer was right. She was right that Jaskier and Priscilla were siblings, she was right that they weren’t a couple. It hits him, in that moment (because he hadn’t had a chance to think about it just yet, there’d been a lot going on, to be fair) that she was probably right about the reason too. 

Jaskier was trying to make him jealous because he thought that Geralt was still with Yennefer. Geralt tried to make him jealous because he thought Jaskier was with Priscilla. The way the two women seemed to be hiding something after that ridiculous double date… they’d known, but probably not until then, because they’d both switched tactics in the same way at the same time, avoiding the men they were supposed to pretend to be involved with, constantly trying to get them alone together. They were probably trying to figure out how to end this stupid farce in a way that Jaskier and Geralt would actually listen. 

Fuck. Jaskier still has feelings for him.

The thought hits him like a fucking battering ram, and he’s foolishly distracted by it for just a moment. Then, an urchin comes to him with a message: the coroner wants to see him about his investigation.

Perfect.

Before he goes, he heads back to the hospital, and they form their plan.

When Geralt sees Hubert, he uses every trick he has in his arsenal. He’s willing to bet that most higher vampires don’t spend a lot of time with witchers (Jaskier being the foolish exception, although Regis had been in his company for a while as well), and almost every time someone is able to call his bluff, it’s because they know him, know his tells. Most people, however, look at him and see an emotionless and unreadable witcher; and what would compel something that cannot feel to lie, when there is nothing to gain from it?

There is another body, unfortunately — that of Joris Aquinus, a theology lecturer from Oxenfurt who’d been very openly critical of the Eternal Fire. Geralt is kicking himself for allowing another death, but he reins in his anger, because he knows that the killer is in front of him, and he knows that he’s almost got him.

“Have you learned anything?” Rejk asks. 

Geralt gives one sharp nod. “This last one confirms what I’d been thinking. I think I know who’s behind these murders.”

He sees the other man’s eyes widen just a fraction before the vampire catches himself and schools his expression once again. His heart rate picks up just a little, and if not for his witcher senses, Geralt would have no idea that this man is nervous. He hides it well, but not well enough. 

“You do? That’s— that’s incredible! Who is it?”

The witcher shakes his head and says, “I don’t think you’re going to like this.” He feels a bit, privately, like a cat that’s cornered a mouse, but lets it run free, enjoying the knowledge that it’s already as good as dead.

“Whoever it is, I just want to see them brought to justice,” the coroner insists.

“I think it’s Reverend Nathaniel.”

The vampire stares at him, an expression of open, unmasked shock. “It makes sense,” he says slowly, like he can barely keep up. His heart is pounding, and Geralt can smell how relieved he is. “The Reverend is… a cruel man. But how do you know for sure?”

Now, to present his evidence. “The way the bodies are burned with formaldehyde, for one. Not many people have access to it — just three that I can think of. You, Nathaniel, and Dr von Gratz. I thought it was the doctor at first, but then I noticed the way everything seems to be ritualistic, and all involves fire or burning in some way. 

“Then, I realised that every victim had lived or spoken against the Eternal Fire in some way. At first it was prostitutes and nonhumans, but then Priscilla was attacked. I talked to someone who knew her, and she’d recently been a bit too vocal with her thoughts on the Church. Then this professor? It has to be someone of the faith, and who better fits than one of the clergy? The way he reacted when he saw someone else in the morgue — that cinches it, really. He didn’t want anyone to examine the bodies, because he didn’t want to be caught.”

The coroner believes him — or, more accurately, believes that this is what Geralt believes. He asks what they can do, since Nathaniel is powerful and well-protected; Hubert believes him, of course, but how can they prove it before he kills again? 

Geralt says that he doesn’t know. He wants to question the priest, but it will be dangerous. He also has to make sure Priscilla is okay, because she’s alone with the doctor and her lover, and he still doesn’t fully trust the doctor. He’s gotten word that Priscilla has woken up, and even if she can’t talk, surely she can write — and if she can write, she can expose her attacker. 

It’s no surprise when the coroner offers to look after Priscilla. He’s not much in a fight, he says, but he can check in on her. He reasons that they shouldn’t put off either task, as they are equally important, but as there are two of them, they can each do something. Geralt says that he appreciates it, that Priscilla is in Vilmerius Hospital; the note on the body declared Patricia Vegelbud as the next victim, so he’s going to see if he can’t stop Nathaniel before he kills again.

They part ways, and as soon as he’s sure he’s truly alone, Geralt calls Yen again to let her know their guest is about to arrive.


	20. Chapter 20

Jaskier loves his family. He doesn't see most of them as much as he'd like — such is the nature of their kind, after all — but he keeps in touch as much as he can, and he knows that they can always count on each other. When Priscilla came to Novigrad, he'd been elated, because he'd just missed her so damn much. He'd been annoyed at the circumstances when Geralt came to town, and at her insistence on that stupid fake-dating plan of hers, but now? He'd easily take another century of fake-dating frustration instead of this. 

When Geralt comes by and tells them that he thinks he knows who's done this, it feels like the air has been knocked out of him. Priscilla is healing slowly for a vampire, but quickly for a vampire who's been attacked by one of their kind, in no small part due to how much of his own strength is being put into it. Sharing his vitality is as draining as it sounds, and he knows that he won't be able to take on one of their kind when he's weakened like this. It's not that he doesn't trust or believe in Geralt and Yennefer, and their abilities, but it's too much of a risk for them to try to take on a higher vampire. They could get hurt, others could get hurt, any number of things could go horribly wrong.

One of Jaskier's strengths has always been thinking outside the box. While the obvious solution that most would go for is _sorceress and witcher fight vampire and hope for the best,_ he has a better idea. Yennefer's magic can do more than fighting, after all, and he isn't the only vampire — and certainly not the strongest — that would want retribution for what happened to Priscilla. 

He presents his idea to the others and they stare at him for a moment. Just as he’s starting to get well and truly uncomfortable, Yennefer says, “Dear Gods, there’s a functioning brain in that head of yours after all.”

Jaskier rolls his eyes, but that’s basically high praise from Yennefer, so he’ll take the compliment. Not wanting to waste any more time, Geralt says he’s going to set things in motion. He turns to leave, but when he gets to the door, he stops.

“Geralt?” Jaskier asks, a little concerned. The witcher is giving him this _look_ , and he doesn’t really know what to do with it.

And then his witcher kisses him.

It’s quick, but it’s firm and full of promise and there’s absolutely no mistaking it. For once, Jaskier is at a loss for words.

“We don’t have time for a conversation,” Geralt says, “but I think there was enough time for that.” And then he’s gone.

“Finally,” Yennefer says. Jaskier turns to her, entirely bewildered.

“What the fuck?”

She raises one eyebrow and says, “What, as if you haven’t been dancing around that for decades now?”  
.  
That doesn’t make any sense, because, “You two—”

“Are friends,” she interrupts, “who recently went on a very interesting adventure to find another djinn to break the bond caused by the first one.”

“Oh,” he answers, feeling somewhat dizzy. “That would have been nice to know.”

It’s ridiculous, all of this. He almost can’t believe that so much has happened in just one day. Jaskier feels rather dizzy, and it’s not all from his efforts in healing his sister. 

“I’m opening the portal,” Yennefer says, because Geralt was right; they don’t have time for a conversation, even though they _really_ need to have _several_. He shakes his head as she opens a portal and steps through, and only a few minutes later she’s back again, but this time with a guest.

“Hi, Mum,” he says, trying not to sound as tired as he feels. He does a terrible job of it.

“Dear Gods,” his mother whispers, coming over to where he sits at Priscilla’s bedside. “Julek, what _happened?_ ”

He sighs. “Don’t know how much Yen told you—”

“That Prissy was attacked by one of ours, and the two of you needed my help.”

“Well. That’s about it, really.” Jaskier explains that another vampire has taken to serial killing for a hobby, and Priscilla was the latest would-be victim. He doesn’t even need to ask her for help before she’s assuring him that she’ll take care of it. 

He’ll admit that he was a little worried that convincing his mother to walk into a portal with a sorceress who suddenly appeared in her home would have taken more effort. At the same time, if his mother has a weakness, it’s her children. She’d do anything for them, to a frankly terrifying point. What’s that saying about a mother bear and her cubs? 

At any rate, he’s missed her, and he didn’t realise just how badly he’d needed a hug from his mother. There’s just something about it, whether it’s the maternal affection, or the comforting familiarity, or the fact that only other higher vampires ever seem to hug him tightly enough (humans being too weak, and witchers being too afraid that _he_ is a weak human), that lifts a huge weight off of his shoulders. 

“You need rest, Julek,” she says.

“I can’t,” he answers. “Priscilla—”

“Is in capable hands, and would never forgive you for not taking proper care of yourself.”

“But Mum—”

“No buts. Butts are for chairs, not for talking to your mother.” 

Oh, he’s sure that Yennefer is laughing at him, and he’s probably never going to hear the end of this. Still, he sighs, and says, “Fine,” because he knows when he’s outmatched, and he’d challenge any man to name a time they’ve won an argument with their own mother. He’ll sit here and do nothing, but he’s sure that all three of them know he won’t be getting any rest until Priscilla’s attacker sees justice. He’s sure he won’t get any _real_ respite until Priscilla is fully healed. 

It really isn’t long until Geralt’s voice comes over the xenovox again, though it feels like a lifetime of waiting. His mother kisses both Priscilla and him on the forehead, and strides out to take care of things.


	21. Interlude: Luella Pankratz, Countess de Lettenhove

Most countesses, when a magical woman they’ve never met spontaneously appears in their great hall, do not follow said woman into a portal. Likely, most countesses don’t have magical women spontaneously appear in their great hall in the first place. Of course, most countesses are not Luella Pankratz. 

She’s not young and foolish, nor has she allowed her age and experience to make her think she’s invincible. The thing is, the first thing out of the sorceress’ mouth is, “I’m sorry to intrude, but your daughter has been gravely injured,” and _that_ is something that she cannot ignore.

“What do you mean?” she asks, gripping the armrests of her seat so hard that she can feel the wood splinter. “Which one? Where is she?” 

The woman answers, “Priscilla. She was attacked in Novigrad. Jaskier is watching over her, but I’d rather not leave them any longer.”

Again, Luella is no fool; and even if she were, she’s a countess. She knows a thing or two about reading between the lines. The sorceress doesn’t likely know whether it’s safe to mention what they are, but if she’s come all this way just to inform her, then she must know. It’s always a little strange to hear her little Julek be called by his nom de plume, but she supposes it would be a red flag if this woman _had_ called him by his given name. After all, he only really allows family to do so, anymore (and, of them all, only she can get away with the diminutive _Julek_ without a fuss. That’s not to say that his sisters don’t try, though, of course). 

Regardless, she puts the pieces together rather quickly. Either this is an elaborate trap, though a poor one that she can easily prepare for, or one of their kind has broken their sacred laws and harmed another higher vampire; and, worse, the one harmed was _her little girl_.

So, she stands and strides over to the sorceress, waving off her guards. She doesn’t have many, and they’re mostly for the sake of appearances, but the dears do still try to protect her, misguided though it may be. “I trust you’ll tell me more when we arrive,” she says. It is not a request.

The sorceress, whose name she has not yet learned, nods, and Luella steps through the new portal that opens. The first thing she sees is her children, and Julek weakly greets her. Her heart _breaks_. Poor Priscilla looks awful, and Luella feels a rage so strong she could choke on it, but she’ll have time to deal with that later. Right now she needs to comfort her son, who looks like he’s put far too much energy into healing his sister. She wishes she could snap her fingers and make Priscilla whole again, wake her up and hold her tight and tell her that it’s all okay. Instead, she must wait.

She learns what happened in a bit more detail. There’s no need for Julian to request that she put the sorry bastard who did this down; she’s more than happy to. 

Higher vampires are not supposed to harm or kill one another. There are very specific rules set in place by their ancestors when they first came to this world. When he hurt her daughter, the assailant made himself exempt from those protections. He is now fair game. 

As soon as they get word that he’s on his way, Luella is standing. She kisses her twins each on the forehead once, promising to return shortly, and makes her way downstairs and outside to deal with this. She’s never liked violence, but in this moment, she’s looking forward to it.

The man making his way to the hospital is young-looking, as many of their kind are. He moves with a sense of urgency, probably thinking that he’s going to finish the job. The thought makes her sick.

“You,” she barks imperiously, with all the authority she can muster (and, considering her position, it is not an inconsiderable amount). 

The man does, indeed, halt for just a moment, before trying to continue onwards again. “Terribly sorry, but I’m in a hur—”

“No,” she says, stepping in front of him, “you’re right where you need to be.”

For a moment, he is confused, and then it seems to click. At an inhuman speed, he runs.

Damn it. Her tailor won’t be happy, but she can’t say she cares as she rips off her skirt so that she can run more easily. It’s not like anyone will see her smallclothes at the speed she’s moving, and besides, who cares if they did? There are more important things to consider right now. 

Unfortunately, he has the advantage of familiar terrain. Luella hasn’t been in Novigrad in… oh, at least a century, she’s sure. She tends to leave the wandering to her children. Still, she is quick, and she is angry, and she is not letting him get away. 

It’s almost hilarious, the way he runs into a warehouse. She isn’t sure if he’s trying to hide, or to make a final stand. Perhaps he thinks he can take her, but if so, he is sorely mistaken. He’s only trapped himself, made this easier for her. 

When Luella enters the warehouse, she is slightly surprised to see two men. One is her quarry, but the other… thick muscles, cat eyes, two swords? Oh, a witcher. Hopefully, this is the one they’ve been talking to.

“You tricked me!” the other vampire spits. The witcher, unrepentant, draws one of his swords. 

“Guess I did,” he answers. 

With an inarticulate shriek of rage, the vampire lunges at the witcher. They’re just barely evenly matched. The witcher’s eyes flash over to her, and then immediately back to his opponent; so he knows that she’s there, and is keeping the vampire distracted.

Good.

She hides behind a few shipping crates and the witcher, accurately catching on to her strategy, slowly moves the fight towards her. Just as they get close enough, he casts one of his witcher signs (which she’s heard about, but never seen before now), and the vampire is, for one critical moment, trapped in place.

It’s more than enough. 

Perhaps it isn’t ladylike to lick her claws clean, but she thinks she’s earned a bit of a treat. Besides, it simply wouldn’t do to walk out of here with blood on her hands. Humans don’t need more reasons to ask questions, after all.

The witcher, for his part, doesn’t seem bothered by her temporary lack of manners. He takes a look at the body rapidly cooling between them, then at her, and asks, “Any parts of this that can help Priscilla?”

That’s… intriguing. “How do you mean?” she asks.

He hums, then says, “Witchers can extract mutagens from monsters that give us enhanced abilities. Don’t know if it’s the same for vampires, but if there’s something in him that can speed up the healing process, that’d be ideal.”

Honestly, she hadn’t thought of that. “It’s worth a try,” she says. “Thank you, witcher. For helping my daughter.”


	22. Chapter 22

Meeting Jaskier’s mother is interesting for several reasons. For one, Geralt has never thought that he would meet Jaskier’s mother. The man doesn’t talk about his family, so Geralt had (definitely wrongly) assumed Jaskier just didn’t get along with them. 

The Countess of Lettenhove is nothing like what he would imagine a countess to be. Aside from the fact that she’s a higher vampire, she’s just not what he expected. She cares deeply about her children, and is willing to get her own hands dirty; she has a commanding presence, but isn’t haughty. Honestly, she’s a little intimidating. Even so, she treats him kindly, thanks him for helping, even though she doesn’t need to. When she calls him _witcher_ it’s simply a title, not an insult.

As they walk back to the hospital, they talk very little. Geralt is sure that Yen can synthesise the mutagen he’d extracted from Hubert, use it to help Priscilla. He doesn’t really know what to say, so he defaults to saying nothing. Unlike her son, she doesn’t seem to need to fill the silence with incessant chatter. The silence between them is a comfort, because he would have no idea what to say. 

And then, of course, she breaks that silence. “Forgive me,” she says, “but I never did introduce myself. Luella Pankratz, Countess de Lettenhove.” 

“Geralt of Rivia, witcher,” he answers. She stops walking, which he notices after a few steps, and when he turns she’s staring at him with an inscrutable expression. He’s not sure if that’s a bad thing, but it is sort of putting him on edge.

“I should have figured,” she murmurs, perhaps speaking to herself. Then, at a volume more suited to conversation (though it’s not like he couldn’t hear her before), she says, “You’re the one Julek sings about.”

And he honestly doesn’t know what to say to that, so he simply grunts. Jaskier’s been singing about him for a long time, but somehow he’s still not used to people recognising him because of it. 

His lack of verbal response doesn’t seem to bother her. If anything, she smirks. “Oh, yes, definitely Julek’s witcher,” she teases. 

First of all, being called _Jaskier’s witcher_ was already embarrassing for him. Now that he thinks back on everything that’s just happened, though — and specifically the way he’d _kissed the bard_ — it’s _way_ worse. He would be bright red if he could blush. 

Still, being teased by Jaskier’s mother is better than her outright hating him. He can’t say he wasn’t a little worried about the possibility. 

Thankfully, she continues walking, though now she _is_ chattering like her son, so maybe the only thing holding her tongue was just the residual awkwardness of having just finished killing a man together. Like Jaskier, she doesn’t seem to expect a response, but unlike Jaskier, he is listening intently to everything she says. Why? Well, by time they make it to the hospital, he’s learned no less than three embarrassing stories from before he and Jaskier had met. 

“Seems someone picked up my skirt,” she says before they get inside. “Oh well, must have needed it more than I did.” 

Again, she doesn’t strike him as very countess-like. 

“Mum! Geralt!” Jaskier has them both in a bone-crushing hug in seconds, and now Geralt is squished against the bard and his half-dressed mother. It’s painfully awkward, but he knows what Jaskier’s been through recently, so he isn’t going to fight it. He is, however, thankful that the hug doesn’t last that long. 

“My heroes,” comes a hoarse whisper, and in seconds Luella is at the bed, fussing over her daughter, who is surprisingly awake.

“She’s made a miraculous recovery,” the doctor says blithely, apparently still compelled to think she’s a normal human patient. 

Geralt ignores him and gives Yen the mutagen, asking if there’s anything she can do with it. She can’t make any promises, of course, but she’s confident that she can put it to good use.

Then, Jaskier is holding his hand, and pulling him outside, and Geralt lets himself be pulled. It’s all very overwhelming, and he doesn’t want to intrude on the moment Priscilla and her mother are having. 

They come to a stop just outside, and the bard leans against the wall, looking absolutely exhausted. “So,” he says, though he follows it with nothing.

“He’s dead,” says Geralt. 

“I figured,” Jaskier says with a tired smirk. “But listen, Geralt. We’ve been making things very hard on ourselves, so let’s speak plainly now. After all, I think there’s a lot that we should have talked about a while ago.”

That’s more than fair. “Do you want to rest first? I’m not going anywhere.”

The bard sighs. “As lovely as a rest sounds, I’d really rather get this out of the way.” That sounds ominous as fuck, but Geralt is done making assumptions, where Jaskier is concerned. It’s never gotten him very far. 

“Go ahead, then.”

“I’m sorry I never told you what I am,” he says. 

“You had your reasons.” It’s true. Geralt understands, he really does. Jaskier looks like he’s going to argue, but Geralt is not about to let him to be any harder on himself than he clearly already has today. “Some things aren’t easy to say, and sometimes things just get built up in one’s head until it turns into something bigger than it really is. It’s the same reason I couldn’t tell you that I love you.”

It comes out so easily that he almost isn’t sure he’s really said it. The way Jaskier looks at him, though, leaves no doubt in his mind. Not only did he finally fucking say it, but Jaskier does feel the same.

He doesn’t need Jaskier to say it back, but when he does? It’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever heard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHEW that was a ride. It's over, folks. Thanks for sticking with me through this.
> 
> I do have a sequel half-written for the next couple, which I will now officially announce is Priscilla and Eskel. Let me know if you actually want to see it, I'm sort of 50/50 on continuing the series. Anyway I hope you all enjoyed. Thanks again 💙
> 
> UPDATE: Jesus Chresus lol it’s been an hour. Message received, I’ll be posting the sequel(s). If you want to read them when they come out you can either follow me on Twitter or subscribe to my new series: _Vampire Bards (and the Witchers Who Love Them)_


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